Hell is Murky
by HoVis
Summary: In an effort to obtain information, the Xindi Council torture Malcolm Reed, both physically and mentally. What effect will this have on him? And what will he do when he discovers that the torture has opened up more than just old wounds? Complete!
1. Chapter One: We Are But Young In Deed

**A/N:** This story takes shortly after the start of Season Three and deals with one of my favourite aspects of Star Trek lore; telepathy. It is centred around the character of Malcolm Reed (no surprises there!) and what could happen if he were the victim of such a mental attack as have been launched on T'Pol in certain episodes of the earlier seasons. Will he be able to keep his hold on sanity as his most personal memories are violated? And even if he does recover – will he still be the same person he was before? Or will he become the person he should have been?

Hang on, just to introduce myself, I am a thirteen year-old girl hailing from Suffolk, England. I am also writing 'Guardian Angel' in the Enterprise section, which is about what happens to Malcolm after his 'death', and I intend to continue it alongside this story.

I hope you all enjoy this story. It has a lot more action than I'm normally accustomed to, and also a lot of imagination as far as the Xindi Council are concerned. I've made up their names as I haven't yet managed to catch them during the four episodes of Season Three I've seen so far! But I'm pretty pleased with this nonetheless. I wanted to get through the idea that they, just like Enterprise, are just trying to protect their homeworld.

Now what are you doing still reading this for? Get on with the story!

**Disclaimer:** As I have noted elsewhere, if I owned Enterprise – or any other fan, for that matter – it would not be getting cancelled.

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_"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes..." - William Shakespeare, 'That Scottish Play'._

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**Prologue**

Jonathon Archer could not remember feeling so helpless in his life. Hospitals, sickbays, they'd always had that effect on him… but at least in the past he'd had the knowledge that the doctors, at least, understood what was going on and would keep their hold on things.

But in this case, even Phlox did not know what to do.

"This is not something I am entirely sure I can treat, Captain." The normally cheerful Denobulan's face was serious. Archer glared at him.

"Why not?" Phlox looked up impatiently, and when he replied his voice was icy.

"Because, _Captain_, this is not an illness, or injury, of the body…" He trailed off, and sighed at the perplexed expression on the CO's face. He shrugged. "Look." He said simply, drawing back the curtains from around the biobed. Archer stepped in.

Sitting on the biobed was Malcolm Reed, staring straight ahead, completely unresponsive to anything but his own haunted thoughts. Every now and then he would suddenly jerk and squeeze his hands together, his shoulders spasming back and forth.

Archer was rendered speechless for a moment, before he turned back to Phlox.

"What _happened_ to him?" Phlox sighed once more.

"Well, it seems, Captain, that the Xindi's methods of… interrogation are slightly more… intrusive than a human mind should ever be capable of dealing with." He paused. "By rights, he should be dead."

**Chapter One**

_Three Weeks Earlier_

The Xindi Council wanted information. And that meant that they would get it, eventually, whatever the means. However, it was the means that was the cause for quite a few arguments among the Xindi generals…

"What you are suggesting is patently ridiculous!" N'Kaw, tall, humanoid, and covered in a thick coat of white shaggy hair, voiced his opinion loudly. At this, the representative of the insectoid Xindi sub-species (no-one could quite pronounce his name, so they normally called him 'Bug-Eyes', though not, of course, to his face) reared up in anger, clicking loudly. At his sharply emitted comment several of the generals nodded in agreement, and N'Kaw fell back in his seat, an extremely ugly expression upon his face.

"And just where, dear friends, do _I_ fit into all of this?" An oily voice floated from the door, and with a sharp signal from the reptilian An'Din, two of the guards stationedby the doorsdragged in the perpetrator of the interruption. An'Din surveyed the little humanoid distastefully.

"You," he hissed, as the man become more and more red-faced from struggling against the guards, "are the back-up plan…" And then, with another flick of his hand, the guards holding the man struck him on the head, causing immediate unconsciousness. An'Din leaned over and looked over the body, and hissed;

"And you know, I never did like people who eavesdrop."

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The Xindi fighter-ships appeared out of nowhere. One moment, the bridge, manned by the night shift, was quiet and calm, and the next - bang! The crew were being thrown back and forth with the force of the explosions, and the tactical alert was blaring, awaking the Alpha shift quite ignominiously if the blasts had not doen so already.

Unsurprisingly, Malcolm Reed was the first to get to his station, surprisingly fully dressed. But when the captain - dressed only in his skivvies and dressing gown – gave him an odd look he only shrugged and muttered; "Couldn't sleep," before hastening to get the weapons and shield plating online.

But then, just as things seemed at their worst, the barrage stopped, and the bridge crew breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived, for a tiny shuttle appeared from the underbelly of the larger Xindi ship and headed straight for Enterprise, and no-one had any question as to their motive and plan. Weapons had been severely damaged in the attack, so they could not shoot the shuttle down, and any sort of restriction they tried to stop the Xindi boarding was immediately overridden by the Xindi themselves. Whatever this attack was meant to be, it had clearly been well planned.

At this, a security team was sent down to prevent their advance any further into the ship, and Reed hurried to join them, whilst Archer remained on the bridge, growing more and more frustrated as the Xindi refused to answer their hails and remained stubborn to any of their scans.

But ten minutes later, the shuttle departed from Enterprise, leaving no casualties, taking no supplies. Once it had re-docked with the larger ship, the two vessels simply vanished once again.

Archer frowned at the viewscreen showing the area of space the Xindi had just vacated. Why would they come, attack them, board, and then just leave like that? Mystified, he pressed the comm button on the arm of his seat.

"Bridge to Security."

"Sir?" Major Hayes answered. Archer frowned again. He'd have rather spoken to Malcolm, rather than the arrogant MACO commander. Ah well…

"Any casualties, Major?" There was an infuriating note of satisfaction in the soldier's voice as he replied.

"None sir, but one of Lieutenant Reed's men managed to get shot in the leg, he's been taken to Sickbay." Archer looked up to see Hoshi rolling her eyes, and he shot her a look. He woulddeal with Hayes in good time.

"Thankyou, Major." He said curtly. "Bridge out." He slapped the panel once again, cutting off the Major's reply. He sighed, exasperated. "Why is that man always so damn pig-headed?" Hoshi smiled.

"Just habit, I guess." This drew a faint, nervous titter from around the bridge, and Archer didn't know whether to stop it or join in with it. Enmity between Starfleet crewmembers and the MACO's oughtn't be encouraged, but could he deny his crew a chance to relieve theirfrustration with alaugh,a rare enough occurrence these days?

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It was only later on in the day when the true reason – and consequence – of the Xindi's attack became clear, but by then it was far too late to do anything about it.

Commander 'Trip' Tucker had been fighting for several hours the niggling discomfort at the back of his mind. He could not shake the indeterminable feeling that something was… missing, somehow.

It was only when he was sitting with Hoshi and Travis in the mess hall that he realised what that something was. He looked up at the pair, frowning.

"Where's Malcolm?"

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Malcolm Reed awoke with a thumping headache and a mouth dryer than the Sahara Desert after a particularly dry spell. He rubbed his eyes blearily, trying to remember what had happened to him. Had heand Trip got a bit too eager with the synthol, somehow?

A boarding, something to do with a boarding party… the Xindi, the scaly ones…

Then his eyes came into focus, and he realised with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach the true extremity of his situation.

He was onboard a Xindi fighter ship. They'd captured him, somehow… and of the reason he was sickeningly sure.

They need information… about Enterprise, about Earth, and about the human physiology, all for the making of their 'weapon'.

Malcolm Reeddidn't particularly care to think about how they would go about _getting_ that information out of him.

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"You have the human?" An'Din hissed in satisfaction, and at thebrusquenod of his subordinate he smiled, revealing two rows of sharp, jagged yellow teeth. He looked up as the strange, whale-like creature, Ee'Sihr – the unofficial leader of the council – screeched out a command.

An'Din gritted his teeth – he would never quite console himself to the experience of taking orders from a creature that didn't even breathe the same air as he – and barked out the order, in his own language, to the Xindi standing before him. The captain smirked, nodded, and turned from the room.

An'Din leant back in his chair, folding his hands on the table before him. It was, a part of him felt, somehwhat juvenile; the amount of pleasure he drew from speaking his own language before Ee'Sihr just because he knew the ridiculous creaturewouldnot understand. The fact that Ee'Sihr never seemed to show any frustration did not hamper his childishgame.But, then again –An'Din's nostrils flared, the only sign of amusement on his face – the accursed amphibian didn't have facial muscles, did he? An'Din didn't even know Ee'Sihr _was_ a he, for that matter…

Hisrestfulmusings were broken by the entry of the other members of the Council. He stood - even managing to make what should have been a sign of respect look like an insult – and shot N'Kaw a particularly boastful look. The shaggy fool had resisted his idea, and now it was time for _his_ comeuppance… An'Din almost laughed. And all the filthymutt could do was growl, for any more would be considered a gross impertinence by the rest of the Council, for it was in this matter that Commander An'Din had truly shown his aptitude for success…

"Bring the human in!" He barked out as the Council was seated, and was more than a little pleased to see that the human male being dragged in by the guards was struggling for all his pitiful worth. He smiled once more, the smile of a hunter bearing down on its prey. It was always so much more _enjoyable_ to interrogate an unwilling informant…

An'Din rose to his feet, noting the bruises on the human's face and grunting in satisfaction. His men had obviously not been gentle with the human, and rightly too. The human race was a barbaric scum…

"Your name, human!" He spat out, and the human raised his head, his eyes – blue, an odd colour to a reptilian eye – hard and defiant. He spat blood from his mouth – red, also strange, An'Din mused – as he replied;

"Go to hell."

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**A/N:** There! What do you think? Please review and tell me!


	2. Chapter Two: Naught's Had, All's Spent

**A/N:** Wow! So many reviews! So firstly a few replies;

Kelli: Thanks. Which summary do you mean? The short one on the 'outside' or the longer one on the 'inside'?

Buggles586: Merci beaucoup! (Thankyou very much!)

Gabi2305: Well then, here you go!

Exploded Pen: I am somewhat in awe that a person who can write as well as you actually reviews my stories! And as for what Malcolm can / can't say in the hostage situation; well, I'm not that learned in Starfleet regs!

Tata: Thankyou! Hmm… well, Malcolm _will_ recover, but only after a lot of pain. This is going to be angsty stuff! And onboard for what?

lieutenants-lady: That will be explained forthwith. It will also be a subject of some concern for poor old Trip…

KITT: Thanks!

HAD1: Well, here you go!

GallyGee: Thanks!

Ryder85: I know, it is sad… Trip will kick himself for it, you'll see.

Sorry if there's anyone I missed out!

**Disclaimer:** Nope… Enterprise isn't mine. But Ishran, An'Din and the plot are.

**Read this next bit!**

**N.B:** There are two sections to this chapter. The 'counterpoint' (can't think of anything better to call it!) is back in the 'present' on Enterprise, after they have recovered Malcolm. The main body of the chapter is what has already 'happened', explaining what occurred to put Malcolm in his current state.

I'm trying to 'humanise' the Xindi a bit; An'Din, the Xindi commander, is going to be a key character. He finds himself becoming attached to Malcolm, despite the circumstances of their meeting. I hope you find this an intriguing idea! Now, on with the story…

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"_I'the shipman's card. I'll drain him dry as hay; sleep shall neither night nor day." – William Shakespeare, 'That Scottish Play'._

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**Counterpoint**

Archer turned suddenly as Trip walked into Sickbay, watched as the expression on the younger man's face turned from one of joviality to that of confusion and worry as he saw Malcolm sitting, motionless, on the biobed.

"Mal?" Trip's voice cracked slightly as he moved closer, hesitantly reaching out a hand. But just as he was about to put his hand on his friend's shoulder, he let it drop back. He looked at Archer, his eyes confused and hurt. And when he spoke, his words were desolate;

"He don't even recognise me."

**Chapter Two**

After two weeks of defiant silence from the human, An'Din had had more or less had enough of it. He knew that he could always go to their 'back-up' plan - that slimy little eavesdropper, the traitor to his own species - but he erred from that idea for it would quite possibly mean the death, or at least the severe damaging, of his prize.

But nor could this silence go on for much longer. The Council were becoming impatient; they were even getting dangerously close to throwing him off the Council altogether, for they felt that if they gained nothing but a silent human corpse for their efforts then revealing themselves to the humans once again would have been in vain.

So this was how he came to be in the Council Chamber late at night – though of course he rarely slept, that was an advantage of his sub-species – with the human, significantly more bruised and bloodied than he had been two weeks ago – at his feet.

"Stand up, coward!" He kicked the human once more, and to his credit, the human pulled himself to his feet, despite the immense pain it obviously caused him. An'Din could not help but respect the man, in his own way… he was loyal to his cause and his people, a sentiment An'Din could understand.

And he could almost have mercy on the man; for his stubborn streak, his refusal to buckle under enormous pressure was a thing valued among the reptilian strand of the Xindi.

But the one thing he could not forgive the human for was his race, his species, and the atrocities that they would one day cause.

And so, when his belief in _his_ cause became weak, he just reminded himself that this stubborn, worthy man before him was his enemy, and that he could not show him mercy for this man might someday parent the person who would destroy the Xindi races…

"Now," he hissed, grabbing the human by the hair, "you are going to tell me _what your ship was doing in the Delphic Expanse!_"

The human looked up, venomous hatred in his eyes, and An'Din saw something within those blue-grey depths snap.

"Finding revenge for the seven million men, women and children you Xindi scum _murdered!_" The human spat out. He had a deep, commanding voice.

An'Din drew back at the force of the man's anger. He knew what the man was saying was true, but the probe had been launched in an act of self-defence…

An'Din looked away quickly, ashamed at his own weakness, and his eyes came to rest upon Ee'Sihr in his tank, whose eyes were wide and understanding. _Don't think about it._ Those eyes seemed to say. _We must do what has to be done._

An'Din held his fellow Xindi's gaze for a moment longer, before wrenching his eyes back to the human, furious for his moment of weakness. He struck the human round the face, causing him to collapse once more to the floor. The human attempted to get up once again, but An'Din knelt by him and pinned him to the ground. He leant forwards so that his mouth was by the human's ear.

"It is not _your_ people who need avenging, human," he spat, "not yours."

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Back on Enterprise morale was slowly but surely slipping. They had searched for two weeks without a single sign or clue that might lead them to their lost crewman. And during the daily briefing in the Situation Room, T'Pol voiced an unspeakable suggestion.

"We should call of this search." Trip immediately exploded.

"_What!_" T'Pol gazed at him coolly, her forehead creasing slightly.

"Commander, I do not understand how you cannot see the logic in the - "

"No!" Trip turned to Archer, his eyes angry and frustrated. "Please tell me you ain't listenin' to any of this?" Archer sighed, before replying reluctantly.

"She may have a point, Trip. It seems… unlikely that we're going to find Malcolm, not now." Trip looked at his friend in complete disbelief. He paused for a moment, wrestling with his feelings, before managing to gasp out;

"Are you sayin' we should just _abandon_ him?" At this point, T'Pol interjected once more, earning herself another if-looks-could-kill glare from Tucker.

"It is quite unlikely that the Lieutenant will still be alive." At this comment, Hoshi looked down at her feet, biting her lip, before glancing up once more.

"But he managed well enough when he was captured on Terra Nova…" she trailed away, her own flimsy encouragement sounding false even to her own ears. T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"The Terrans were primitive and did not have quite the same motive to harm the Lieutenant as the Xindi do." Trip pursed his lips, infuriated that everything T'Pol was saying spoke only sense. But he couldn't just give up on his best friend. He took a breath.

"Look," he started, with a forced air of calm, "all I ask is that we hold on for just a few more days." He looked around at them all stood there, Hoshi, Travis, Archer and T'Pol. "Don't you think we owe it to Malcolm – who'd have risked life and limb had it been one of us the Xindi had taken – to do our very best to find him?" He grimaced. "And if we all we find is a body, well, then at least we'll have the comfort of knowin' for sure."

The group were silent.

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An'Din looked the humanoid – the eavesdropping fool – up and down in distaste. If there was one thing the Xindi warrior could not abide, it was a traitor to his own species.

And Ishran, the Betazoid before him, certainly was that.

The Betazed were a peace-loving species, who only used their telepathic abilities for communication with others of their species. It was considered sacrilegious to even attempt to use those abilities on a member of a species unused to such a form of communication. To the unprepared, such an attempt was a violation of the most personal nature, and could even result in death or severe brain damage.

But this was exactly what Ishran made a living out of doing. He was an interrogator, of the most incredible sort. He could, with a simple thought, burrow deep into a subject's memories, searching out the correct information, and then withdraw, without a moment of distress. It was a painless method of interrogation

Except, of course, for the individual being 'questioned'. And somehow, An'Din was quite irrationally uneasy with the thought of handing over the human to the crude devices of the twisted little telepath.

"So," Ishran leered, "you finally require my assistance, do you?" He cackled suddenly. "Your _interrogation_ not quite go to plan, then?" An'Din's eyes narrowed. Ishran was coming recklessly close to crossing the border to plain disrespect…

"No." He muttered through gritted teeth. "It did not." But Ishran, fool that he was, did not see the dangerous glint in the Xindi's eyes.

"Well," Ishran smirked, still oblivious to the fact that he was putting himself in mortal danger, "I must see this specimen before I begin my… procedure." An'Din gritted his teeth and held back the urge to wring the scrawny little man's neck. Ishran was too useful an asset to damage overly… more was the pity.

"Follow me." He growled, and turned on his heel. He did not look back to see if Ishran was following him or not. But for the human's sake, he hoped he wasn't.

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Back on the Enterprise, Trip was becoming desperate. He knew the drill, when a crewman went missing; four weeks full-on search, then an extra five weeks 'winding down', gradually pulling out their efforts. After four months, the individual would be declared missing in action, and a letter of condolence would be sent to his or her next of kin.

But out here in the Delphic Expanse they found themselves working on a much shorter time scale in which to hold out any feasible hope. The Xindi, Trip knew, would do anything to get information about Earth, Enterprise and her mission. He remembered all too well the 'slave-girl' Raajin and how she had tricked them all.

Trip sighed heavily, glancing down at the PADD in his hands, reading it but not taking it in. He was in the mess hall, but somehow it didn't feel the same without Malcolm there.

He still couldn't believe it had taken him _five hours_ to notice he was gone. True, shortly after Malcolm had been reported missing Hoshi had discovered a 'cookie' in the computer system – the Xindi had made the computer think there was still a full crew complement although one man was missing – but was Malcolm that unimportant to him that it had taken so long for Trip to notice his absence? He hoped not.

Still, Trip told himself without much conviction, Malcolm would hold out. He was strong enough to stand any physical assault the Xindi might throw at him. He'd survive.

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Although it was not necessary, An'Din remained in the brig as Ishran carried out his initial 'examination' of the human. Although his excuse to the suspicious looks of the guards had been that he did not want the human overpowering Ishran, his true reason for staying was to keep an eye on _Ishran's_ actions. When it came to choosing whether he preferred Ishran to a member of the species that would one day destroy his homeworld, he was faintly disturbed to realise that he was far more concerned for the human's welfare than the slimy betazoid's.

"Hmm." Ishran grunted as he stepped into the brig, looking down at the sleeping human. An'Din looked on disapprovingly.

"What is it?" He asked sharply, and the sound of his voice caused the human's eyes to snap open. The man pushed himself up against the wall, eyeing An'Din suspiciously, obviously expecting another beating. An'Din said nothing further, merely shook his head and indicated Ishran. The human's eyes narrowed as he studied the humanoid. Ishran smiled placatingly.

"Just relax… I won't harm you…" He murmured soothingly, and An'Din could not help but think how expert an actor the betazoid was. Ishran _was_ going to harm the human, in ways unspeakable even to Ishran's own species.

But the human was obviously a sharper judge of character than Ishran had assumed him to be, for he did not relax his defensive posture. An'Din smirked slightly as he observed Ishran's obvious bafflement.

But then the betazoid's expression hardened, and he gave the human a contemptuous look. He reached out a hand, grabbing the human's head with a strength surprising for one of his spidery frame.

The human kicked out and struggled from Ishran's grasp, his eyes wide with horror as Ishran began his 'examination'. An'Din knew what was happening; Ishran was using his telepathic abilities to burrow into the human's consciousness, an almost sacrilegious act of violation upon any living creature.

But An'Din knew that this initial examination would be nothing – _nothing_ – compared to the mental torture the human would be forced to endure at Ishran's brutal investigation that would at his, An'Din's orders, soon take place.

And though he knew that the human was his enemy, and that he himself was meant to be a hardened warrior, he wondered briefly how he would even manage to give that order when the time came.

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**A/N:** Please review, tell me what you think!


	3. Chapter Three: Blood Will Have Blood

**A/N:** Well, I would reply to the reviews, but right now it's late and I don't want to have to leave the update until tomorrow! So sorry for that and thanks for all of your reviews; you're wonderful. So here's chapter three, if there are words stuck together it's not my fault, the quick edit doesn't seem to be working too well!

**Disclaimer:** Nope, me no own!

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_"Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse is the initiate fear that wants hard use: We are but young In Deed." - __William Shakespeare, 'That Scottish Play'._

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**Counterpoint**

After a long day on the bridge Archer made his way, reluctantly, down to Sickbay. It had been three days – three _long_ days – since they had recovered Malcolm from the Xindi, and during that time he had made no response whatsoever to anyone or anything. And though Archer continued to visit every day, his hope for Malcolm's eventual recovery was waning. The Xindi had simply destroyed his mind.

As he reached the sickbay doors, Archer took a deep breath, steeling himself. It was almost more than he could bear to see a man he had come to respect sitting on that bed like an empty shell.

He sighed and entered the sickbay, ducking around the curtains that Phlox had put up around Malcolm's bed.

"Malcolm?" He said softly, not expecting any answer, and a shock of hope and surprise coursed through him as the tactical officer looked up. But Archer was soon to be disappointed, for when those azure eyes met his, they were simply blank, and held none of the sharp intelligence Archer had come to know, and now missed painfully.

Archer sighed once more, and was about to turn away when something grabbed his wrist. He turned in shock as Malcolm's hand – bony and shaky from his maltreatment at the hands of the Xindi – tightened around his wrist.

He looked up, and saw that those eyes, whichhad beenso empty before, were now blazing with urgency.

"Two-four, six-three, seven-oh." He rasped out, and Archer frowned, not noticing as Phlox slipped through the curtains.

"What? What is it? Malcolm? What do those numbers mean?" But Malcolm just stared at him and repeated urgently;

"_Two_-four, _six_-three, _seven_-oh." With the stresses on the words, Archer realised what they were.

A set of co-ordinates. But leading to – where?

"Where do those co-ordinates lead, Malcolm? Malcolm?" But the life had drained once more from the man's eyes, and he had returned once more to his original position, staring into space. Archer shook his head, tired beyond his years. What had just occurred had done nothing for him, save to complicate even further an already impossible situation.

**Chapter Three**

Though he would never have liked to admit it, Ishran the betazoid was ill at ease. He was preparing to – _interrogate_ – the human, and found himself in an extremely uncomfortable position. He was accustomed to 'interrogating' prisoners who had already been broken by the Xindi torture – he was just a tool for ascertaining the individuals truthfulness – but in this case he was dealing with a man who had not only resisted, but also gained the respect of the Xindi general, An'Din.

Oh, yes. He chuckled darkly. They could hide nothing from him. He had sensed the Xindi's concern back in the holding cell, and he highly doubted it was for himself, for General An'Din had made no secret of his dislike for Ishran.

Ishran scowled at this. None of the Xindi showed him the respect he deserved. But they would learn, oh yes, they would learn –

"Are you ready yet, _doctor?_" Ishran looked up in annoyance. It was the Xindi guard outside his 'quarters'. The guards often gave him different titles, all of them sneering and disrespectful in the manner of their use. He would, he mused visciously, like to try out some of his 'techniques' on _them_…

But he simply smiled and replied pleasantly;

"Very nearly, my friend, very nearly." And with that, he swept from the room. It was time for the human to disclose all…

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An'Din was waiting for Ishran outside the human's cell. He had learned, from Ishran's initial 'examination' that the human's name was 'Malcolm Reed' and that he was a Lieutenant and weapons officer onboard the human ship, Enterprise.

The weapons officer. That meant he could one day be the designer, the progenitor, of the weapon that would destroy the Xindi homeworld…

But he would never get that chance, because what was about to happen to him would destroy the intellect that might have done such a thing. And for some reason, rather than feeling glad that at least one possible threat was to be eradicated, An'Din found that he felt only regret at the thought. Regret that a man he had come to respect – yes, respect – almost as an equal was to be destroyed… not from without but within.

An'Din was suddenly and quite unpleasantly awoken from his reverie by the arrival of Ishran, flanked by the two guards who had been sent to find him. As always, Ishran's smile appeared faultlessly genuine, but still An'Din did not trust it, for in the man's mud-coloured eyes there lurked a… a hostility. And the Xindi warrior had no doubt that, should the Betazoid wish it, he could incapacitate every member of the crew onboard the asteroid station with a single thought.

But there was something else in those eyes, as well… Ishran was worried.

"What is it?" An'Din asked immediately, and Ishran, though he struggled to look innocent, eventually sighed and shook his head. An'Din frowned slightly at this; for once, it seemed that something had occured to knock some of the cockiness out of Ishran's attitude, and so An'Din listened, for once, with patience to Ishran's reply.

"To be perfectly frank with you, _General_, I am concerned about the risk involved in this particular case." To any outside listener, Ishran's words would simply sound like those of a concerned doctor about to tend to a particularly difficult patient. But then again they would not know of the 'case', nor the patient that he spoke of.

"Oh?" An'Din smirked, not caring that he might be treading dangerous ground. "Well, unless you have forgotten, _doctor_, you have little choice in the matter – and I highly doubt that anyone here is that worried about _your_ wellbeing." Ishran's pale cheeks flushed in anger, and he spat;

"I am not merely speaking of a risk to myself, Xindi." He paused, before sneering, "And I do not suppose you particularly want this human to be privy to such information as the details of the Xindi attack fleet, do you?"

An'Din gave the Betazoid a look that would have frozen trellium. And then he gave the order that would seal Malcolm Reed's fate.

"Just get it done."

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At first there had been silence, but then the screams started. The screams told of agony, of violation, and of ignominity. There were muffled words, phrases, curses, intermittent throughout, but mostly it was just the terrible screaming.

And through it all An'Din stood outside the door, standing as he would were he a guard of a sacred tomb, awaiting the final blows to seal the coffin and roll the stone before the entrance, sealing Fate forever.

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Malcolm Reed could not recall how long he had been onboard the Xindi station. He could remember, through a haze of blood and pain, the torture and the interrogation, but in that moment he didn't much care, for he knew that that hand, that cruel, searching instrument was entering his mind once again…

_No, no, please no…_ He begged the hand, but it did not halt it's course, did not withdraw it's harsh scything through his mind, his memories, his emotions.

A little girl… Maddie, he realised thickly, his heart warming at the sight of her, but then the hand twisted the scene… Maddie was crying, bleeding… he was crying out to her, but he couldn't reach her…

Why was the hand showing him this? This had never happened in reality…

_Just beating a bit of the fight out of you, Malcolm._ A voice hissed, and he realised it to be the voice of the hand. He struggled to shut it out but then the scene changed again, and a searing flash of guilt burnt through his body.

A woman stood in front of him, tears streaming down her face.

"Why?" She was asking, her eyes pleading. She had such beautiful eyes… "Malcolm, I love you. Why are you doing…" Then her voice faded and all was darkness. The hand spoke again, but this time it was curious rather than vindictive.

_You left her._ It said._ Why?_ Malcolm tried to shut out the hand's question, for it caused too much pain, but he couldn't quite manage it.

_I don't know._ He answered truthfully, and for a single moment it seemed he felt something like sympathy emanating from the hand, but then the harsh cruelty returned, and he found himself returning once more to memories he did not want to inhabit… there were no mores scenes though, for in the manner of most memories they were just glimpsed images, brief snatches of conversation, emotions… all of them painful.

But then the hand turned its aims to something far more terrible… it began tearing down walls, rushing headlong through his mind, not caring what destruction it left behind in it's single-minded quest for it's goal, it's goal of information, about Enterprise, about her crew.

_Why?_ Malcolm's mind screamed out in agony as it physically felt the tearing down of neural pathways and loss of control. _Why are you doing this?_ The hand answered distractedly.

_Because this, young friend, is my job…_ Malcolm recoiled in disgust and distress at the complete lack of morals he felt from the hand.

But then the hand made it'sdeadly mistake. It touched upon a single memory; a precious, sacred memory that was personal and private; a memory that was not to be shared with anyone, and certainly not with this filthy, heartless creature, and certainly not in _this_ way…

And Malcolm Reed began to fight back. He fought back with all the desperation and strength he possessed, and, gradually, inch by agonising inch, he began to gain ground… and then, suddenly _he_ was the one doing the searching… he saw images, of people he had never know, places he had never seen before… and then he caught sight of something terrible.

But he had to get to it… he had to find out what this man knew about the Xindi.

And so he continued his battle, little realising that by doing so he was most likely throwing away the last tenuous grip he had on life, and sanity at all.

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**A/N:** Please review, and tell me what you think! Oh, and out of completely random curiosity, I recently heard that less than half of people asked knew what Easter was really about. So… any comments on that? (Just humour me! I'm harmless really:-) )


	4. Chapter Four: Turn, Hellhound, Turn!

**A/N:** Thanks for all your lovely reviews! This is going to be the last chapter with the counterpoint ("past") / main chapter body ("present") style. And breathe a sigh of relief; Malcolm's torture is almost over. But firstly, a few responses to my lovely reviewers;

Shrekster: Thanks! But I'm afraid the updates are sparser than I'd probably like, but at least they're quite long!

HAD1: Thanks, and here you go!

Scifi-warper: Thanks. I _am_ mean to him, aren't I? And I'll do my best. To get Malcolm back to normal, I mean…

stage manager: I seriously hope you're joking! If not, e-mail me and I'll enlighten you!

KITT: Thanks. And you're right; believing or not believing in it is one thing, but not knowing at all?

Leyli: Thanks. I do the torture rather well! But watch out, I also do fluffy friendship stuff (coming up in chapter five!). And, um… didn't Lent end last Sunday, Palm Sunday? Because if you count forty days from Shrove Tuesday… I'm probably wrong and working on a kinder calendar!

Buggles586: You really mustn't say stuff like that. My head will never fit through the door!

Tata: Thanks. Unfortunately, it's not going to be without a price… read on to find out!

My apologies to anyone I missed out!

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Enterprise, there would be more Reed-centric episodes!

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"_They have tied me to a stake, I cannot fly, but bear-like I must fight the course." – William Shakespeare, 'That Scottish Play'._

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**Counterpoint**

Trip Tucker hesitated outside Sickbay. It had been about two hours since Archer had arrived on the bridge with the co-ordinates Malcolm had given him, and Trip had spent the time battling with himself as to whether or not he should go down and see his friend. Archer had said that after stating the co-ordinates Malcolm had just returned to his trance, but still…

Trip couldn't give up on his best friend. He couldn't stand seeing him sitting there, like an empty shell. Trip longed to hear his friend's harsh British accent once more, professional, arrogant and infuriating.

But, somehow, Trip knew that even if Malcolm did recover – and that was a big 'if' – he would never be the same man he had been when the Xindi had captured him. He had fought so hard to escape the Xindi that one time that he'd been forced to sacrifice a little bit of himself, his life-force, to do so. He'd need all the help his friends could give him if he ever had any chance of regaining it.

But Trip was scared. He was scared that he, Charles Tucker, would not be strong enough to hold his friend against the force of the tide. He was scared of the thought that he might never really see his friend again. But he had to push these fears aside, for Malcolm's sake. He took a deep breath and entered the Sickbay.

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**Chapter Four**

Ishran's mind was – literally – reeling. _How_ in the name of the god's had the human managed to overcome him? He had, to begin with, toyed with the human, torturing him in a way no physical means could. This had seemed to beat much of the fight from the pathetic specimen…

Ah. Ishran remembered, as he had begun his trawl through the human's memories, one single image, more private and well hidden than the others. It had been a single memory -

_Keep away from there!_ Ishran recoiled suddenly as the voice, embittered and angry, rang through his mind, and then he realised where he had made his mistake. Slowly, wheedling and pathetic, he began to try and beg his way out of the situation, but the human paid no heed; simply strode further and further into Ishran's memories –

_Oh, no._ Ishran thought, his heart sinking.

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Almost there… he was almost there… Malcolm could see the snippet of knowledge shining, like the star from the old Christmas story he could remember being read long ago, just out of reach but all the time pulling him onwards…

Then the memories came flooding through him, all that Ishran knew of the Xindi became his to know and use as well… the whereabouts of the flag ships, the weak points in the security of the asteroid station they were currently on…

And then it stopped. The flow of knowledge was cut off, suddenly and painfully. And it was then that Malcolm realised, through an intuition not entirely his own, that he had to withdraw from this – this mind-meld. But it was harder, much harder than it had been finding his way in, like trawling his was through knee-deep mud.

What _was_ that Betazoid (how did he know the name of the man's species?) doing? Malcolm knew too well what strength of mind the manpossessed fromwhat he had already done –

_This is of your doing, human, not mine!_ Came the agonised scream from the Betazoid, and then the connection between their minds was severed, and it was even worse than the merging of the two had been, Malcolm was spinning through the darkness, he had to get out, he was dying…

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An'Din was not quite sure how to react when he heard Ishran's screams added to the cacophony of pain emanating from the human's cell. A part of him felt glad that the human had managed to overcome the vile creature, but another part of him, that was solely loyal to his cause, realised that Ishran's knowledge of the Xindi base could not be allowed into human hands.

And when the screams abruptly stopped, he decided that the time for contemplation was over.

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They were both lying on the floor, the human and the Betazoid. Ishran appeared to be unconscious, though still breathing, somewhat to An'Din's disappointment. The human, though…

The human was conscious, but his eyes were no longer defiant… they were terrified. An'Din went to help the human up, and he flinched away. An'Din shook his head, disgusted, not at the human but at himself, at his own people who would endorse such an act as to destroy a person like the human before him. He knew what would happen to the human, now that he was beyond usefulness… the Xindi Council would either have him killed, or deported to a penal colony somewhere. Whatever happened, the end result for the human would be the same… death.

Once more, the Xindi shook his head, and muttered, using a phrase the human had unwittingly taught him;

"To hell with the consequences." And, gently as he could, he lifted the human up, and exited the brig. As an afterthought, he turned back and tapped in the door code for the brig, effectively sealing Ishran in.

Then An'Din turned to the guards posted at either side of the door, and barked out an order. The two guards, though unwillingly, left their posts. An'Din gritted his teeth, knowing that sooner or later he would have to... _silence_ the guards.

The walk from the brig to the shuttlebay felt endless. An'Din could not explain why he was doing what he was; he knew that he could probably be killed for treason were his little 'stunt' discovered. But he found he did not care overmuch; he had become disillusioned with his own people, and now hedid not believe that their mighty 'cause' was quite so noble after all.

At last they reached the hatch for the escape pods. An'Din couldn't risk entering the shuttlebay, it would be teeming with people, but the escape pod, though basic, was fairly well equipped.

An'Din was about to push the human in just as a team of guards – the 'night' rotation – turned the corner, and he gritted his teeth as they paused to salute him.

"General." They greeted him in unison, and he nodded stiffly, his hand still hovering over the controls to the pod hatch. One of the guards – Firkal, he remembered dimly, a suspicious young thing, and for this reason a rising star on the ranks – frowned slightly at this, and at the sight of the human, his hands unbound.

"Sir…" Firkal's voice trailed off hesitantly at the look on his commanding officer's face. Despite his ambition, he knew when to draw the line, especially with General An'Din; Firkal was of one of the warm-blooded species of Xindi, like An'Din's rival, N'Kaw, he was covered in white fur, though due to a rare genetic mutation his was thin and only on certain patches of his body.

He had fought all his life against the fact that he was different, and N'Kaw had helped him, taking him under his wing, much to An'Din's disgust. Rivalry such as that between the different sub-species of Xindi ran deep, and deepest of all within the hierarchy of power.

"What?" Snapped An'Din, and Firkal set his jaw.

"Why is the… prisoner with you?" Firkal looked the human up and down, his lips tugging into a sneer at the pathetic sight before him. The human looked terrified, pathetically so; his eyes were flitting from one figure to another, and a half-crazed look crossed his face when they settled upon Firkal. An'Din's eyes flashed at the sight of the sneer, andthe young lieutenant crowed inwardly as he realised what was going on… and what he could tell General N'Kaw when next he saw him. He would be well rewarded.

"I do not believe, _Lieutenant_, that I need to answer to _you_." Firkal almost hissed in delight at the victory. An'Din was a fool… more than that, he was a fool who had managed to become attached to the enemy. But Firkal knew he would have to tread very carefully indeed… he glanced at his companions, who were looking blank and also a little worried. They did not want to antagonise the general.

"My… apologies, General." Firkal inclined his head slightly, turning away. He had seen An'Din's hand over the controls to the pod; he knew what the general intended to do. He would allow that to happen… he did not care overmuch what information the human took back to his people, not in comparison to the glory he would receive in return for revealing one of the most respected Xindi on the Council as a traitor to his own species. Who would worry about a few co-ordinates reaching human ears?

Yes, he thought, his lips curving upwards once more as he turned from An'Din's view. Given time, he would defeat An'Din. And from the ashes, he would rise as the next great ruler of the Xindi... given time.

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An'Din let out a low growl of dissent as he watched Firkal's retreating back. The disrespectful young thing had let the matter go… and yet somehow An'Din felt that he was still in danger from him. An'Din feared Firkal; not for the sake of his own welfare, forin the great scheme of things he mattered little, but for what might occur if such a creature should come to power. Such men cared only for ambition; not for the people they ruled, and should so serve.

An'Din turned back to the human, his gaze taking in everything, the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest, the slow fade of panic in the eyes, leaving only a blank deadness. Was it really in the human's best interest to send him out into space, alone, like this? Maybe he was better off dead.

No. An'Din shook his head. No going back on his plans now, it was far too late for that. He glanced once more up and down the corridor, then quickly slapped the hatch release. The pod hatch flipped open, and he pushed the human inside, following hastily. There would be no going back. If they were found now, they'd both be shot on sight.

Swiftly, An'Din keyed in the last known co-ordinates of the earth vessel into the autopilot. No going back. He then lifted the human into the single seat before the controls. No going back. He looked into the human's eyes, and gripped his hand tightly.

"Let your gods go with you, human." He whispered. No going back. He turned to leave, but as he did, the human spoke.

"Thankyou." An'Din whirled around, but the man's eyes were blank once more. He shook his head. No going back.

He stepped out of the pod, and sealed it from the outside. No going back. He slapped the panel by the hatchway once more, and the pod was released into space. No going back.

An'Din turned away, and began to head up to the Council chamber. No going back… no going back.

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**Counterpoint**

Phlox had made himself scarce as soon as Trip had entered. The chief engineer had sighed at this. He'd rather have had Phlox with him, to support him, but perhaps even the optimistic Denobulan was losing hope, understandable after all this time.

Trip forced a smile onto his face as he ducked round the curtains that had been erected to keep Malcolm from the prying eyes of well-meaning crewmen.

"How you doin', Mal?" Trip did his best to keep his voice cheery as he clapped eyes on his friend and comrade, but it was hard going. Malcolm was wasting away; his skin was pale, his figure thin and bony, and there were dark shadows under the lifeless eyes. Trip could not bring himself to think of them as _his_ eyes, for they weren't; the stubborn light that Trip had come to knowas his friend was all but extinguished.

All but. Could it be that somewhere deep within the seemingly empty shell Malcolm Reed was still alive, struggling to get out? How had Phlox put it… it was as though Malcolm had pulled as far into himself as he could to recover from what he'd experienced. But the question was this: would he have the strength to pull himself back out of his protective shelter?

Malcolm was fiddling nervously, rubbing his hands together and jerking his shoulders back and forth, a pattern Trip had seen him repeat many times over since his 'return'.

Trip had to smile slightly at the thought of Malcolm's return. True to his ways, the man had come home in style. They had all but given up hope on his safe return when Hoshi had alerted them to the fact that there was an escape pod, Xindi in design, drifting towards the solar system they had just left. The pod contained one biosign; human.

But the pod would not respond to any of their hails – and Trip had wondered, at the time, why Malcolm had not set off the distress signal. But then they'd hauled the pod in, and found Malcolm lying there, comatose, and Trip had realised that Malcolm must have had an accomplice; he'd never have managed to escape and set off thepod in the condition he was in.

One of the Xindi? Possible, but such an act of compassion went against the grain of what they knew about the Xindi mindset, but on the other hand what they knew was not that detailed. Whoever it was, he or she had saved Malcolm's life, and for that Trip was eternally grateful.

Now he just had to hope that their mysterious benefactor's efforts had not been in vain. They had to hope that Malcolm would recover, for hope was all that they could do.

Trip squeezed Malcolm's shoulder and was about to turn away when his friend turned his blue-grey eyes up to him. Recognition burned in them.

"Trip?"

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**A/N:** Well, the usual drill, tell me what you liked / didn't like. Also, what do you think of An'Din in particular, and Firkal? I'm toying with the idea of continuing to run with those two, despite the fact that Malcolm has now left the asteroid station. I have a wonderful idea about Firkal… but I'll only use it if you want to read it!


	5. Chapter Five: Unsex Me Here

**A/N:** Firstly, thanks for all your reviews and apologies for how long this chapter has taken!

The Libran Iniquity: Wow, what a long review! Both Ishran and An'Din will feature again, though we won't see Ishranagain just yet.The slimygit is getting what he deserves!

Gabi2305: Danke!

KITT: Yeah, I love Trip as well… but not as much as I love Malcolm! Thanks for your review!

Queen of Fairyland: Wow, I don't think my writing's ever been described as 'wicked' before. I'm flattered!

Exploded Pen: Thanks! And can I make a deal with you? If I update this story quickly, will you write more of 'The Bugger Files'? Please? I need some comic relief with the SAT's coming up!

Tata: Thanks! I know, I'm evil…

Ryder85: Thanks! And to be modest, I'm fourteen in May, so I'm an 'old' thirteen. And I read a lot, which I think is probably helpful!

Tripbea: Yep, Ishran has finally got his comeuppance…

Scifi-Warper: You just gave me a very interesting idea about Ishran…

Anyway, now read on!

**Disclaimer:** Nope, nothing belongs to me. But I have got a signed poster of Dominic Keating, does that count?

**A/N:** Sorry if this chapter is a bit rubbishy… sort of a build-up to the next bit in the plot (boy have I got such an idea about the Xindi!)… and I'm trying to 'slow down' Malcolm's recovery a bit, as one of you said I should in your review. Anyway, read on!

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"_The times has been, that, when the brains were out, the man would die, and there an end. But now they rise again, with twenty mortal gashes in their crown!" – William Shakespeare 'That Scottish Play'._

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**Chapter Five**

Trip stared at his friend. Eventually, he managed to splutter out;

"Mal?" But at this, Malcolm shot him a frightened look, and quickly cast his gaze back down to his hands. Trip went to put his hand on Malcolm's shoulder, but he flinched away. Trip exploded in exasperation. "Mal, _look_ at me! For Chrissake – "

"That will do, Commander." Trip whirled around to see Phlox standing behind him, holding his scanner and looking disapproving.

"But he spoke to me!" Trip felt like tearing his hair out. Phlox pursed his lips, and carefully approached his patient. Very slowly, he passed the scanner over Malcolm's body, and when he flinched away, Phlox spoke gently,

"Shh. Just stay still." After a moment, in which silence resided in the Sickbay, he turned back to Trip, and motioned that they should move away. Trip did so reluctantly, and when he joined Phlox on the other side of the partition he exploded once more, albeit quietly so.

"What the hell is goin' on, Doc? He'd spoken to me, why did he withdraw like that?" For a moment, Phlox seemed deep in thought, staring at the readouts on the computer screen next to them, but then he turned back to Trip, his gaze sympathetic.

"I understand how you're feeling, Commander – " Trip seemed about to interrupt, but Phlox held up a hand. "Allow me to finish. This is no _ordinary_ situation. Mr Reed will not recover overnight; nor will his recovery all be uphill." Trip stared at Phlox.

"What – what do you mean?" He asked, ashamed to hear the whine in his voice, but unable to keep it from emerging. Phlox lookedonce againat his computer, before sighing heavily.

"Mr Reed suffered a _telepathic_ attack. Now, the human mind is, in _theory_, capable of telepathy…" He trailed off.

"But?" Trip interjected, and Phlox nodded before continuing.

"But those empathic and telepathic capabilities are never used, at least not in ordinary circumstances. Which means that – "

"Which means that any attack of such a kind would be traumatic, not only in its force but also in its nature." Trip nodded. He'd heard all this before; he wondered why Phlox was telling him now what he already knew. Phlox, as though sensing his thoughts, spoke up once more.

"The reason I am telling you all this, Commander, is to highlight to you the fact that Mr Reed's condition is no ordinary one, and that his recovery is going to take far more tact and care to heal than any _physical_ injury might." Trip nodded, now ashamed by his earlier outburst.

"It's jus'…" He motioned haplessly with his hands. "I jus' don't like feeling so… helpless, that's all." Phlox nodded, and Trip saw in his eyes that the doctor was in just the same position as he.

"I understand, Commander." Phlox then fell silent, and Trip coughed awkwardly, searching for some way to break the silence.

"Uh, Doc – what did you mean about his 'recovery not all bein' uphill'?" Phlox hesitated slightly before answering.

"I mean that even if he does recover, there will always be the possibility of a… relapse, for lack of a better word." Trip stared at Phlox, not understanding.

"A relapse?" But Phlox simply shook his head.

"You'll understand in time. But for now… be patient." Trip nodded. He'd do whatever was in his power to get Malcolm better again.

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After three days the fuss over the disappearance of the human prisoner had finally died down, and An'Din at last allowed himself to relax. Firkal had kept thankfully silent about it all, and though An'Din was inclined to be suspicious about anything concerning the ambitious young Xindi he decided to 'count his blessings' – a phrase he had learnt from the human in the course of the interrogations…

_"Why are you doing this? Why are you being so stubborn? All we want is a little information." An'Din had attempted to reason, even though he knew it was in vain. He knew what the man's answer would be, for it would have been the same as his own had he been in a similar situation._

_"Because I don't believe in betraying the people I care about!" An'Din was strongly tempted to announce that he couldn't have put it better himself. Sighing, he decided to try from another angle._

_"Do you really think you're going to get out of this? That your 'friends' will be able to rescue you?" The human had laughed, an odd reaction in such circumstances An'Din had thought, but then again the human was a somewhat strange creature. That was why they were called 'aliens', after all. _

_"If they even attempt to rescue me, get me a comm link to them and I'll tell the fools to bugger off. I wouldn't let them risk that for me." An'Din's face remained impassive, despite the fact that behind his impassive mask he was feeling an even greater growing respect for the man. After a pause, in which the human masqueraded indifference, An'Din spoke again, his voice low and faintly pleading._

_"Listen, human, if I don't get anything out of you through this, you'll be handed over to a far more painful form of interrogation." But once again, the human surprised him by laughing._

_"Well, I'll count my blessings while I can, then." An'Din had not replied to this; he merely shrugged and thought once again what a strange creature this human was._

An'Din shook himself from his reverie and glanced up at the chronometer. He sighed, realising it was time for the meeting of the Xindi Council. It would take all his patience and agility of mind to dodge the snipings and inquiries of his rival members.

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"You must be quite disappointed, General An'Din. This was, after all, _your_ project." Even through his thick matte of fur, N'Kaw seemed to be smirking. An'Din took a moment to quelch the desire to put his hands round the general's furry neck and squeeze, before responding calmly;

"There will be other ways of finding out information about these humans. And once the Betazoid recovers he may be able to shed a little light on the situation." N'Kaw, however, was not quite satisfied.

"It's a little odd, though, don't you think?" He addressed the Council, and there came a low, chiding whine from Ee'Sihr's tank. An'Din looked up in surprise; why was the creature defending him?

"Yes, but – " N'Kaw started, before being cut off once again by Ee'Sihr. An'Din nodded, grateful.

"Ee'Sihr's right. We do not know very much about these humans, or their capabilities." N'Kaw shot him a venomous look.

"But the Betazoid has never been overpowered before, and nor have we ever had a prisoner escape from this station! Which is why _I_ believe the human was… assisted." An'Din did his best not to react to this. He had been wrong to relax… Firkal _had_ said something…

"Assisted by _whom?_" An'Din asked steadily, fixing N'Kaw with a challenging look. He knew that the general would never state his belief – that An'Din was the traitor who had helped the human escape – before the rest of the Council.

Especially not, An'Din thought with a private smirk, as the guards at the door are _my_ men.

So N'Kaw simply looked away, before gruffly announcing that he felt the meeting was over. Murmurs of assent rippled round the table, and slowly the group began to disperse. As he left, An'Din glanced back at Ee'Sihr, and was unsuprised the see the creature's gaze was fixed on him. An'Din nodded almost imperceptibly in thanks, and then turned and left the room.

Both N'Kaw and Ee'Sihr knew his secret, and N'Kaw wished to destroy him with it. But Ee'Sihr… Ee'Sihr wished to protect him from the consequences of it. But why, An'Din did not know.

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Trip was confused, tired and confused. He was in Sickbay once more, hoping, despite Phlox's efforts to persuade him otherwise, for a reaction from his friend.

Sickbay was empty; Phlox was in the small room that counted for an 'office' just off the main body of the med bay. Malcolm was still sitting where he had been hours before, and every now and then he rubbed his hands together feverishly, as though trying to wash something from his hands. The image struck a memory somewhere deep within Trip, but he couldn't for the life him say what it was. He didn't care, either. He just wanted Malcolm to recover.

But Trip knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was hopeless. He was losing hope of ever really seeing his friend, Malcolm, again. The facet of Trip that is in every human, the silent, instinctive sense, knew that a part of Malcolm Reed had died at the hands of the Xindi… but just how large a part remained to be seen.

But for the sake of whatever was left of his friend, he couldn't let these fears show on his face.

"Hey, Mal," he forced himself to smile, "all your guys in the armoury send their regards." No reaction. With an effort, Trip tried again, leaning forward conspiratorially, "Y'know, with you out of it, Major Hayes tried to take charge of the armoury the other day, but your boys didn't even let him get a foothold. How about that, hey?" Nothing. Trip sighed, and turned away, but then Malcolm grabbed his wrist and he turned back to see Malcolm's azure eyes gazing up at him, terrified.

"Don't go." Malcolm whispered, squeezing Trip's wrist harder, and Trip felt his heart skip a beat at the look in his friend's eyes. The look was one of fear; almost animal fear, as though the cloak of humanity that we humans only wear through effort had been torn away. Trip gently put his free hand over Malcolm's, and spoke slowly.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, Mal." Malcolm's gaze wavered slightly, and he spoke urgently,

"You won't let them come back?" Trip swallowed, hatred burning in him at the people who had done _this_ to his friend, who had destroyed his pride, his dignity and his self-respect.

"I'm not goin' anywhere." He repeated once more, his voice quietly forceful, and Malcolm nodded almost imperceptibly, seemingly satisfied. Trip slowly pulled his wrist from Malcolm's clammy grip – when had Malcolm's strength become so frail? – and sat down on the biobed opposite him.

"Look, Mal…" Trip started, before shaking his head, and trying again. "Look, if you want to talk about it…" He shook his head again. It was pointless; Malcolm's gaze was once more staring into murky depths Trip knew he would never see, and he knew Malcolm did not hear his words.

"I'm goin' to get Doctor Phlox." Trip said quietly, but as he turned away Malcolm spoke up once more, and his voice was quiet and trembling.

"It was like being raped." Trip turned back, to see a tear trickling down Malcolm's face, pale and thin from weeks of mistreatment and malnutrition. Malcolm looked up, and for the first time since his return Trip saw something of the man he knew. Anger and pain shone through those eyes, and he half-shouted, half-sobbed, "They took that which _was not theirs to take!_"

In a single moment, Trip was by his friend's side once more, and in another second he had him in his arms. Trip held him tight, praying – though he was not a religious man – to any god who would listen to give him the strength he needed to help Malcolm.

"Shh," Trip whispered, realising that the wetness on his face were of his own tears as well as Malcolm's, "shh, it's alright. It's gonna be alright." Then, as he felt Malcolm's body go limp in his arms, he murmured; "I'll be here."

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Trip gently lowered Malcolm's body onto the biobed. He glanced up at Phlox, who was standing over him, holding a hypospray.

"What did you do that for?" He asked angrily. Phlox pursed his lips, slightly in annoyance, but also in sympathy.

"Look at this readout." He stated simply, tapping the controls on the screen above the biobed. Trip frowned up at the screen, which showed two images of a human brain – presumably Malcolm's. He decided to humour Phlox.

"What am I meant to be seeing here, Doc?" Phlox indicated the first image.

"This is a scan of Mr Reed's brain before the… incident. Nothing out of the ordinary. But in this one," and here he indicated the second image, "the cerebral cortex, the part of the brain that contains long-term memories has been disturbed; disordered."

Trip nodded, somewhat confused.

"So…?" Phlox tapped the screen once more, and parts of the second image showed up red.

"That is a scan taken just before Lieutenant Reed lost consciousness."

"Before you _made_ him lose consciousness, you mean." Trip interjected, and Phlox nodded impatiently.

"Yes, yes. But at that point his neural nerves were almost overloading; he might have lost consciousness on his own, or worse, had I not intervened." Trip nodded once more, but this time with understanding.

"You mean his memories of what happened are so… so…. painful, that to even think about them causes him to _lose consciousness?_" Tripasked incredulously. Phlox nodded.

"Strange as it seems. Of course; as time goes on it will get better. But only very gradually."

Trip fought to comprehend this for a moment, before asking;

"I thought… I thought the brain was meant to be able to… blank out traumatic memories?"

"Only in certain cases."

"Oh." Trip glanced down once more at his friend before turning to leave, and murmured;

"Let's hope his dreams are pleasant ones."

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Sadly, Charles Tucker's wish was not to be granted, as the man on the biobed slowly slipped back into the mire of his long-forgotten memories once more.

The images slipped by, like sand through a person's fingers, offloading as they did so all the pain and emotion attached to them. He brushed past a beautiful young woman with long black hair, a woman who had now faded into the autumn of her life because _he_ existed, his beautiful, wonderful mother who loved him, who he loved too, but who he knew sometimes wondered what life might have been like had her son not been a part of hers…

He glimpsed an image of summers long gone, after his sister, his precious sister had been born, when they played in the fields, laughing, delighting in life and in childhood.

He experienced once again the triumph of graduation, of being a young man standing on top of the world, ready for anything, with nothing but clear horizons ahead. He felt once more the power of youth, of how strong and indestructible he believed himself to be.

He tasted the sweetness of young love's first kiss, all over again. But then the images darkened, and that young love was torn away, shattered shards lost forever on the winds of Time.

He felt once again the cold wind on his cheek, relived the strange monotone images of a funeral he only half remembered through the tears.

He felt the anger, the frustration at his own weaknesses, the hideous irony that of all the vices Mother Nature could have handed him it had to _that_ one, the one that caused, in his eyes and he was sure his father's eyes for him to be a complete failure.

Then the images moved on once more, his dreaming thoughts turned to the stars, the one place where he could forget his past, the one place where a new start could perhaps be promised.

He remembered the freezing days spent in the shuttlepod, the quiet friendship that was born there, a friendship he treasured and was grateful for above all else.

He remembered the minefield, how his respect for Archer had grown almost instantaneously… how the stubborn fool had refused to let him go. But he'd failed once again, and he would almost have preferred death to that knowledge.

Then the Xindi attack… the horror of it, the utter _pointlessness_ of it all, Trip's sister, dead, and all he could do to help his friend was to stand by him, his words could do nothing to heal the scar on his friend's heart.

Then the images turned one last time, to theXindistation,and Malcolm struggled against them, but as hard as he tried the images kept coming, the pain, kept coming…

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Phlox stood over his patient's bed, helpless to do anything as Malcolm Reed tossed and turned in his sleep. Eventually, though he knew it would do nothing to help in the long run, he pressed another hypospray against the man's neck. With a sigh, almost of relief, the man rolled over into a quieter night.

Phlox looked around the Sickbay, and after checking once more on his patient, and then moved over to his pets, smiling slightly as they chirruped up at him. At times like these their uncomplicated company was a balm to his worried nerves.

"Well, my friends, it seems Mr Reed is onto the road to recovery." He spoke quietly as he fed his assortment of bats, quadrupeds and miniature mammals, before sighing slightly, and adding; "The _long_ road to recovery."

It was not in Phlox's nature to be down in spirit or pessimistic, but at times like these he wondered if anything he could do would ever be enough.

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**A/N:** Please review! Also, anyone who can pick up on the not-so-subtle nod to Shakespeare's _Macbeth_ about halfway through can have a cookie! And the thing about the memories being stored in the cerebral cortex I made up; I don't really know anything about the workings of the brain!


	6. Chapter Six: The Vile Blows of the World

**A/N:** I am so, so sorry this has taken so long! I have no excuse. I offer this chapter as penance for my sins!

To my long-suffering readers (from whom I have received **48** reviews, thankyou so much!):

Scifi-warper: He will be okay. Eventually, anyway… Oh, and as for that idea: you should be worried. Very worried. (evil, maniacal laugh)

Queen of Fairyland: Thankyou kindly. I'm sorry you had to wait so long!

The Flaming Dragonfly: You're making me blush! I have a somewhat worrying obsession with Shakespeare. I have to borrow _Romeo and Juliet_ from school on the hush in case my friends find out! We were doing a production of _Macbeth_ when I started writing this, and I thought it sort of fitted! Thanks for your review, I hope you keep reading! I like English a lot, apart from when the teacher is mad and Welsh.

KITT: Thanks. And my generation isn't as black as they paint it, really. Well… on the whole, that is!

The Libran Iniquity: Thanks! Not too much Xindi politics this chapter, but they'll feature later on, mostly in the epilogue.

Gabi2305: Thanks. And as I'm feeling nice, you can have a cookie anyway. 

Exploded Pen: Thankyou for updating TBF! I'd love to see that calendar! And you're right, SAT's _were_ easy, though I was tempted to scream when I read the writing tasks. Could they make them any more boring?

Tata: Thanks for your review. But I'm sorry… I made you wait again! I'm afraid I'm just not that organised a person.

General Kunama: Malcolm, every time. From a writer's point of view, what we know about his past is much more intriguing than Trip's backstory is. Thanks for your review, I hope you keep reading!

JacobedRose: As I said earlier, he will be alright… in the end. (evil smile)

Antares Star: Have a gold star for your knowledge of the wonderful 'Scottish Play'!

Navigatio: I'm sorry, I was desperate! Thanks for your advice, I always get a bit confused with 'it's' and 'its' the rule for possession is slightly different than with names, isn't it?

Special thanks to **Daniela Mosetti Casaretto **for her continued support of this story – all the way from Italy!

Now, just get on with the chapter!

**Disclaimer:** Nope, me no own.

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"_Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?" – William Shakespeare 'That Scottish Play'._

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**Chapter Six**

Malcolm Reed stood in front of the mirror in his quarters and inspected himself critically. He had finally been released from sickbay after almost two weeks of Phlox and Trip flapping about him and he was, quite frankly, relieved. He preferred to be on his own.

But when he'd looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in three weeks, he'd got quite a shock. He was, to put it kindly, not a pretty sight. In fact, he hardly recognised the man staring back at him. It wasn't the physical damage that had changed him; the bruises would fade and the nose would straighten out, eventually, but the look in the eyes…

_When did my eyes get so cold?_ Malcolm asked himself. He saw in his own gaze the harsh, guarded look he had often associated with his own father's eyes, and he briefly wondered what had happened to Stuart Reed to make him like that. Surely it couldn't have been as bad as what had happened to him.

But he saw something else in his eyes as well; something he would never have seen in his father's eyes. It was weakness.

And he despised himself for it.

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An'Din knew that his time was running out. He had hoped that he would be able to simply go on as he always had done, but now he realised that it was impossible. Even if he hadn't been 'under suspicion', as it were, from Firkal and N'Kaw he knew he could no longer be a part of the plan to attack Earth. He could not destroy the species of a man he had come to respect.

He knew of only one place to escape to; to the human ship, _Enterprise_. But he did not know where the accursed ship was; only one man onboard the asteroid station knew, and he was a man An'Din was loathe to rely on.

He would have to take Ishran with him, which was why he was now standing before the cell once again, but this time he had no guards with him, and he was alert to every sound.

For this time he would be escaping from his own people.

"General An'Din." Ishran spoke as the doors opened and the Xindi stepped in. It was dark, and An'Din was wary as to how the Betazoid had known it was him… he did not want his thoughts to be known, yet.

But he did not have much choice.

"Ishran." An'Din had no trouble seeing in the dark, and he saw that the slimy traitor was by no means the mess he had expected. His arrogance had clearly been bruised by the encounter with the human, but it had not been destroyed. Anger surged through An'Din as he compared this image to that of human directly after Ishran's violation.

"You need my help." Ishran stated, a hint of smugness in his voice. An'Din stepped closer, his tall frame towering over that of the alien crouched on the floor. Ishran cocked his head to one side. "What will you do if I refuse to give it?"

An'Din sneered at him.

"I know you will not refuse, because you are a selfish creature; when it is a choice between your survival or the breaching of whatever morals you may have you will choose the first every time." Ishran shot him a curious look.

"You know me too well." He murmured, before standing up. Then, almost ironically, he said; "Very well then. Do with me what you will."

And without another word he held out his hands to be bound.

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"It will never work." Malcolm stated simply, handing the PADD back to Trip, who sighed with impatience.

"Ah, come on, Mal, people used to say that abou' space travel, didn't they? But _now_ look at where we are - "

"Listen, Commander, I'm not going to endorse another of your harebrained schemes, particularly not when it involves _my_ armoury!"

Trip glared at his friend. Perhaps he was being too impatient, perhaps he was expecting too much too soon, but he hated the fact that Malcolm seemed to have retreated ever farther into himself. Ever since his breakdown in Trip's arms he had drawn away from the engineer's company – hell, he'd drawn away from the company of everyone who cared about him. And Trip knew he should give Malcolm time, but frankly, time was one thing he didn't have.

"For Chrissake, Mal! My name is _Trip_, remember?" Malcolm looked away, his eyes blazing. When he next spoke his voice was quiet and the coldness of it shook Trip to the core.

"Please leave, Commander. I have work to do." And with that he turned away without another word.

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It was true that Malcolm Reed had, in an expression of his own self-disgust, drawn away from everyone near to him, but what he didn't realise was that there were some members of the crew who were slightly less easy to shirk than Tucker seemed to be at that moment. And surprisingly, it was those who knew him least who were prepared to rally round.

It was almost like an underground conspiracy among the crewmen below decks; quiet, barely noticeable individually but when everyone's efforts came together it was something much larger. It was made up of simple things, really; a smile in passing, a friendly word in the corridors, a nod of respect. All were tiny things; all were designed to slowly but surely increase the man's faltering self-confidence.

And under ordinary circumstances, such efforts might have worked. But these were no ordinary circumstances, and it would take more than gentle coaxing from a few people to pull him from his deep depression. As it would also take more than a hypo from Phlox to quiet his troubled mind…

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_Where was he? This wasn't where he was meant to be… why wasn't he on Enterprise any more?_

_Wait. There was someone with him, in the pitch dark room. He froze, his breath coming in shallow gasps._

_"Who's there?" He asked, ashamed by the tremble in his own voice. "Who is that?" _

_Then, slowly, two figures came into sight through the gloom; one the tall, imposing figure of a reptilian Xindi, and the other, the other…_

_"Get away!" He screamed, cowering at the sight of one small, insignificant individual. But the individual reached out and grabbed his arm, and he couldn't shake him off… it was going to happen, all over again…_

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Malcolm Reed awoke, trembling. His body was drenched in cold sweat, and his mouth was dry. He stumbled out of bed and blindly reached for the lights. As the lights came on in his quarters he leaned forward, his body wracked with sobs.

The nightmare came every night, and every night he awoke in a state of sheer terror. But this time it had been different… this time Ishran had reached for him…

He made his way for the sink, and glared in pure hatred at his reflection.

"Pull yourself together, Reed." He spat at his reflection. "Stop being such a bloody coward."

The others thought he was alright, thought that he'd all but forgotten what had happened to him, and so he prayed and hoped it would remain. It was bad enough for him himself to see his weaknesses, but for the crew to see him so cowardly, for the Captain to, for Trip to…

His reflection did not reply to his angry words, but drew back, hurt and ashamed. What remained of his pride recoiled in disgust. He glanced down at his chronometer. Oh-four-hundred hours. Too early for breakfast; too late for going back to sleep again. Perhaps a workout would clear his mind.

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"You're up late, Lieutenant." Malcolm turned to see Major Hayes standing on the threshold of the training bay, a peculiar expression on his face. It was not his usual self-satisfied smirk: it was almost concerned.

"Up early, actually." Malcolm corrected him shortly, stepping away from the punch-bag he had been using to train. Hayes nodded silently, still wearing that odd expression. He hesitated, then threw down his towel at the side of the training bay. He held up his gloves.

"Fancy a workout?" Reed couldn't help but smile slightly; since tensions between him and Major Hayes had reached their climax a few months ago he was beginning to appreciate the Major's abilities a little more. But that didn't mean the man wasn't still a complete stubborn mule when he wanted to be, but in a way Malcolm knew he was no better.

"Of course." Reed replied, tightening his own gloves, and adopting a defensive stance. Hayes balled his fists, and came forward, snapping out a combination that Reed easily blocked and countered. He did it again, and once more Malcolm blocked it with surprising ease. After it happened a third time, Malcolm paused, and folded his arms accusingly.

"Why do I get the sense that you're going easy on me?" Hayes looked away, an uncomfortable expression on his face. Malcolm felt anger burn deep inside him. He pulled off his gloves and made for the exit. As he reached the door he turned back and spat:

"I do not need pity, _Major_. Especially not yours."

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Major Hayes was still standing there, lost in thought, ten minutes later. Eventually, he pulled himself from his reverie and moved towards the punch bag, his expression sour. He tightened his gloves and, his expression still ugly, threw a hard right hook at the bag.

Hayes was not a man who gave his respect easily to another person, but when he did so, he did so for life. And Malcolm Reed, despite his paranoia and possessiveness of the onboard security, was one such man who had earned the Major's rare admiration.

Hayes would not lie; he knew that the man who was the driving force in the Enterprise security was Reed, not him. Even the MACO's now looked to Reed for orders where they would once have looked to the Major. Hayes accepted this; Reed was the natural leader of the group, and he would not fight against it. Reed had never had any cause to be wary of the Major.

In a way, Reed was one of the few men Hayes really looked up to. Hayes had only had one hero, and that was his father, but that hero had long been a fallen one. This had led to the young Hayes developing a cruel cynicism to the world; he saw the world's flaws, stark against all its beauty, and hated the world for it. And so he had decided to join the military; so he could defend what good was left in his world.

And Hayes recognised that Malcolm Reed was possessed of a similar drive, and yet he also saw that Reed still appreciated the wonders of the world; he was an explorer more than a soldier. Hayes wished _he_ could be like that: he wished that he himself could appreciate all the good in the world, rather than despising it for its failings.

And yet now Hayes feared that Reed was losing the one thing that made him different from the MACO's and their commander. He feared the man was losing his humanity.

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There was someone else who was concerned for Malcolm Reed, but her concern was based less on what she knew and saw and more on what her instincts told her.

Mary Reed sat by her window and gazed out at the moon shining upon the floods of the monsoon, fingering a silver necklace in her hands. It had been a gift from her son on her fiftieth birthday. She had smiled at the time, knowing full well that Malcolm had originally bought it for a girlfriend with whom he had had a brief dalliance. The boy took after his father in his tact and diplomacy. Speaking of her husband…

Stuart Reed was still fast asleep, his eyelids flickering gently. Mary liked watching her husband sleep; it made the lines of his face seem less harsh, somehow. The deep lines smoothed out, and she could pretend that he was still the young man she had married so many years ago.

She knew that neither of them would ever admit it, but the two of them, Malcolm and Stuart, were so alike; they went together.

It was just a pity neither of them could see that. Malcolm was his father's image, but he was something different too. He had a fire in him that had never been ignited in the elder Reed's soul. Malcolm was an explorer, always fighting for something more, whereas Stuart was satisfied with simply following the route set out by his father, and his grandfather before him. And he couldn't understand why his son didn't want to do the same.

But where had Malcolm's 'sense of adventure' led him? Into the cold darkness of space, miles from home… fighting a war.

The military. What was it about a life in uniform that attracted the men of the Reed family so?

"Mary." Mary turned suddenly to see Stuart standing beside her. She forced a smile.

"I didn't mean to wake you." She said softly, glancing back out of the window so she wouldn't have to meet her husband's eyes.

"You're worried about him." It was a statement, not a question. Mary frowned, and looked back round at him.

"Aren't you?" She asked harshly, and instantly regretted it as a flash of hurt crossed her husband's face. It was a tightening of a muscle in his jaw, nothing more, but she could read his every expression. "I'm sorry." She murmured. Stuart shook his head.

"Just because I don't _talk_ about it doesn't mean that…" He trailed off, seeing the look on his wife's face. She snorted bitterly.

""Not talking about it" is the reason for us not having heard from _our son _once in the past three years, Stuart." Her voice softened. "It's the reason he's out there."

Stuart gently laid his hands on her shoulders.

"Come back to bed, dear," Mary shook her head, silently, but he pressed, "worrying about it won't do anything." She shook her head again, and he sighed, and turned away. But then she spoke, so softly he scarcely heard her words.

"I'm terrified something's happened to him, Stuart." He smiled slightly.

"You worry too much. Malcolm can look after himself."

"I know that. But… something doesn't feel right."

Stuart Reed didn't reply; just looked away, trying but failing to quell the voice within that said _I feel it too_.

His son would return. He had to. There were too many things left unsaid between them for him not to.

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**A/N:** Please review, I will try and get the next chapter out a bit quicker, but no promises, I'm afraid! I hope you liked the last scene, it's one of my favourites for this chapter, I think.


	7. Chapter Seven: Peace!

**A/N:** I am so, so sorry for taking so long to update. There is no excuse. A hundred thanks to Daniela Mosetti Casaretto for encouraging me to update. So here it is! Just enjoy... things are getting very angsty now!

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"_Mine eyes are made the fools o'the other senses..." – William Shakespeare, 'That Scottish Play'_

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**Chapter Seven**

They were running out of air. It was a thought that did not please An'Din one bit. Not just because it would be an extremely unpleasant way to die, but also because it seemed slightly clichéd.

He'd never thought it would end like this. An'Din was rarely given to fatalistic musings, but when he did think about it the image he had always held was of his death being at the hand of an enemy, in a blazing rush of light.

He'd never thought he'd die on the run from his own people. He'd never thought he'd die side by side with an alien who was a traitor to his own people. He'd never thought he'd die because he'd tried to save a man who was his enemy. He'd never thought…

There are a lot of things we never think of, aren't there?

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After the incident with Hayes in the gym, sleep was the last thing on Malcolm Reed's mind. He was at the end of his tether – tired, scared, frustrated and careworn. He just wished, for one moment, he could make it all go away.

And so he gave into a temptation that had been nagging at him for the past week. It involved a certain secret stash hidden at the bottom of his cupboard – he had no qualms with breaking the regulations in that case, ever officer he'd met in the navy had one – and the rather large bottle of scotch it contained.

Malcolm stared at the amber liquid for a moment and a little voice in his head told him that this was cowardice of the worst kind – he was forgetting his troubles, and was too lazy to even run from them. This voice was uncannily similar to that of his father's.

But he shook the voice – which for once held some wisdom – away as, with a grimace, he downed the glass. As he refilled it, his hands shaking slightly now, he reflected that he really would have preferred rum. It was the only naval habit his father had ever truly managed to instill in him. Then, in a sudden morbid fancy, he lifted his glass -full once more -to the absent man.

"To you, Father… may your precious navy rust at the bottom of the ocean." And with a bitter expression on his face, he drank to his own pledge. Having emptied his second glass of scotch he promptly filled his third.

And so Malcolm Reed proceeded to get quietly and ingloriously drunk.

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An'Din gritted his teeth as he once again attempted to refine the navigation controls and once again received nothing but a sharp shock of electricity for his troubles.

"Having trouble?" Ishran's ingratiating voice spoke from above him. An'Din glanced sharply up and grimaced at the Betazoid.

"Yes." He said, his eyes darkening. "Since you asked." At this Ishran glanced out of the pod's bubble of a window and frowning, said absent-mindedly;

"Well, I didn't really _need_ to ask, but I thought it was polite to." An'Din jerked up in anger at this.

"You mean, more polite than reading my thoughts?" He asked heatedly, and Ishran glanced back at him in surprise.

"No… your thoughts and feelings were written clearly enough upon your face." At this, An'Din simply rolled his eyes and pulled himself up from below the console. He glanced out at the starfield, which was void of anything but… well, _stars_.

"Anything?" An'Din asked, not quite daring to hope. Ishran frowned, then shook his head in frustration.

"It is… strange. I could have sworn…" But An'Din had no time for 'could have's'. He leapt from his seat and grabbed the alien around his scrawny neck.

"Listen, you wretched creature," he growled, "can you find the human or not?" His theory in taking Ishran with him was that the Betazoid, having experienced such a strong telepathic link with the human, would be able to lead them to him. According to Ishran, it had been a good theory… but not so good in practice.

"I do not know!" Ishran burst out, his eyes beginning to bulge slightly. "Please, let me go!" An'Din stepped back, and folded his arms. "Thankyou." The Betazoid gasped, rubbing his neck and gulping in deep mouthfuls of air. He turned back to the window and shook his head in frustration. "I… cannot explain it… the link is… wavering." He paused. "I have never experienced anything like this before." He admitted eventually.

An'Din nodded silently, carefully surveying the man before him. Somehow, a change had seemed to come over him since the… incident with the human. An'Din could not explain it. The man had grown a backbone… and a conscience.

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Back on Enterprise, Malcolm Reed was becoming slowly but wonderfully drunk. As he went to pour his fifth glass he realised that that the bottle was empty. He peered into the murky depths of the glass bottle, and giggled.

"That's funny." He said, half to himself and half to the shadows who haunted his dreams. He wasn't scared anymore, just tired, oh so tired...

He glanced over at his bedside cabinet, and a thought began to grow within him. His personal phase pistol was hidden in the top drawer, and it would be quick, very quick...

_Coward_. His father's voice hissed at him, but he was no longer listening. He stumbled across the room and pulled the drawer open. Gently, as though he were holding his first-born son, he lifted the phase pistol out.

"It isn't that bad a thing to do, surely?" He whispered to himself. "When people want to go to sleep but can't, they take a sleeping pill... surely this is no different?" Tears were running down his cheeks, but he paid them no heed. Slowly, his breathing low and shallow, he lifted the phase pistol to his head.

He closed his eyes. His finger tightened around the trigger...

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Trip was up on the bridge pulling the night shift, having promised to as a favour to the night team commander, Lieutenant Hecat. He was glad for the opportunity to see some new faces: Hoshi recently had been withdrawn and not really a lot of fun, and the same could be said for Travis. Not that it was their fault – the entire Alpha shift crew had been feeling the effects of Malcolm's... condition.

Trip couldn't understand it. He had thought that Malcolm would get better, once he was up and working with the people who cared about him most. But he had pulled away, pulled away from everyone, and when Malcolm had thought he wasn't looking Trip had seen despair in those blue eyes. And it was a feeling Trip was beginning to share, despair, despair that he could do _nothing_ to help the man, his best friend. The only person who could make Malcolm get better was Malcolm himself...

But still, Trip thought bitterly, perhaps having the head of the man who had done this thing to Malcolm would make everyone feel a whole lot better... himself included.

But the death penalty was sadly against Earth laws...

"Sir!" A voice of alarm broke through his thoughts. He looked up sharply to see Crewman Seyton, the night shift communications officer, staring down at his read-outs and looking panicky. Trip strode over to him, glancing at the screen. "Sir," the poor man said, "there's been an unauthorised energy burst, it looks like it's from a phase pistol, on C deck, crew quarters..."

Trip swallowed: his mouth was suddenly feeling very dry.

"Who's quarters?" He asked, but in his heart he already knew the answer. Crewman Seyton tapped his controls, and a grey look came over his young face.

"Lieutenant Reed's..."

But Trip was already out of the door.

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**A/N:** What a nasty cliffhanger! (slaps wrist) Anyway, please tell me what you think, my long-suffering readers!


	8. Chapter Eight: Sleep No More

**A/N:** Hello everybody! I thought I'd better hurry up and update or I might run the risk of being flamed to death by infuriated readers! I can't quite believe that you all like the fic so much. Anyway, a few responses to my lovely reviewers...

The Libran Iniquity: Thanks for the info! Hmm... _will_ Trip get there in time? Read on and find out...

Scifi-warper: Argh! Calm down!

Tata: Alright! But you do realise you have just condemned Malcolm to a lot of pain by giving me permission to torture him, don't you?

JacobedRose: I hope you don't mind that I sort of nicked a quote from your review for use in this chapter...

Exploded Pen and elbcw: You two, my dears, are two clever for your own good. Hmph...

Thanks also to General Kunama and Buggles586 for their reviews. Apologies to anyone I missed out!

And now... on with the story! Enjoy!

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"_If it were done when t'is done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." - William Shakespeare, "That Scottish Play'_

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**Chapter Eight**

Trip rushed through the corridors like a man possessed. As he ran, a single thought beat a tattoo in his mind, _not Malcolm, not Malcolm..._ he'd always been the strong one. It had been his strength – or pigheaded stubbornness – that had kept Trip from jumping out of an airlock when they'd been stranded in Shuttlepod One. But if Malcolm was dead... surely it was Trip's fault for not being strong for _Malcolm_ when he needed him to?

_No._ Trip clenched his jaw and pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind. _He won't be dead. He can't be._

_Ah,_ said a cruel little voice in his mind, _but if that phase pistol was set to kill... you can't raise the dead, Charles Tucker._

"I know!" Trip shouted out loud, drawing alarmed looks from those in the corridor. At last, he reached Malcolm's quarters.

He drew to a halt by the door, words failing him as he reached for the override panel. He hesitated. What if...?

"I'll do it, sir." It was Seyton looking pale but determined. Trip nodded gratefully. The man went to type in the override code, but the door opened at his first touch. He glanced up at Commander Tucker, indicating the open door with his hand.

"After you, sir." Trip snorted, and shook his head.

"An' they say there are perks to rank..." Sighing, he stepped into the room. Lying on the floor in front of his feet was a body, still and lifeless.

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An'Din stared at the controls in front of him. There was one readout that was warning him that they only had two hours worth of air left, but he wasn't paying any attention to that one. Instead, he was staring at the sensor display.

Suddenly, he let out a huge bark of laughter. Ishran, who had been staring moodily out into the starfield, looked up in annoyance.

"What on Betazed is so funny?" He snapped, but An'Din simply chuckled merrily.

"Look!" He said, pointing towards the controls. "Ah, the irony..." Ishran leaned over and glanced over the readout, his eyes widening as he did so.

"_Enterprise..._" He breathed. "So we are saved!" An'Din, still chuckling, shook his head.

"Ah, but there is the irony... they are two hours away... and we have but one hour of air left!" And with this, he doubled over, his laughter filling the small room.

Ishran stared at him for a long moment, certain that the Xindi had gone completely and utterly mad. But then he too, saw the ridiculous side of their predicament, and soon enough the pod was ringing with the laughter of not one, but two people.

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Trip stared at Malcolm's body, his heart in his throat. Lying beside him was a phase pistol and an empty bottle. Trip shook his head, sharp tears coming to his eyes.

"Oh, Malcolm, you fool..." he whispered, leaning over to pick up the bottle. But as he did so, the man on the floor groaned. Trip stared at him. Surely he couldn't have survived...

"Trip?" Malcolm said groggily, looking up at him through red eyes. "What are you doing here? Aren't I dead?" Trip gave a smile, feeling dizzy with relief.

"Apparantly not." He said.

"Oh, God." Malcolm groaned, sitting up and reaching for the phase pistol. Trip put a hand behind his back to keep him from falling back over as he examined the phase pistol. Malcolm shook his head and put it down in disgust. "Set to bloody stun." He muttered. "God, what a failure. I can't even kill myself properly."

Trip, upset to hear his friend talking in such a way, shook him, hard.

"Hey." He said roughly. "I don' wanna hear you talkin' like that, okay?" Malcolm made no reply. "_Okay?_" Trip repeated, forcefully. Malcolm closed his eyes and nodded.

"God..." he said, pressing a hand to his forehead, "what a hangover."

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At any other time, Archer would have chewed Malcolm out and busted him down to crewman for the 'stunt' he'd pulled that morning. But, somehow, he couldn't find it in himself to chastise the man for wanting a way out... goodness knew he'd had enough to deal with over the past few months.

And anyway, Archer had other things to deal with at that exact moment in time... such as the fast approaching Xindi shuttle.

"ETA, Hoshi?" He asked, frowning at the viewscreen, his body tense in his seat. The communications officer gave him a brief glance before replying;

"At current speed, ninety-one minutes, sir." Archer nodded, deep in thought. Some instinct – the instinct that had landed him captaincy of _Enterprise_ – told him that it would be in all their best interests if they got to that Xindi shuttle a lot faster.

"Hoshi... what would the time be if we increased our speed to Warp Three?" Hoshi frowned and tapped at her controls.

"Twenty-seven minutes." She said eventually. Archer nodded, before speaking into his comm channel.

"Bridge to Engineering..."

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"Look, Trip, I do _not_ need a baby-sitter, alright?" Malcolm glared at the chief engineer as they both re-entered his quarters. Phlox had given him a once-over and sent him back to his quarters for three days sick leave. Trip personally thought that this was the worst thing Phlox could do, but he wasn't about to argue with the doctor... especially not as he himself had a medical exam coming up in a few weeks.

"Look, Mal', I'm jus' hangin' around to make sure you don't do anything stupid..." Trip trailed away as they both surveyed the room. Malcolm shook his head and bent down to pick up the empty bottle on the floor.

"No wonder I had a hangover..." He muttered, looking quite depressed as he dropped the bottle into the waste bin. Trip gave a small grin.

"I should report you... secret stash in the cupboard, huh, Malcolm?" At first Malcolm looked alarmed, but when he caught sight of Trip's teasing expression he gave a small smile.

"Don't you have one?" He asked lightly, before straightening up. Trip pretended to look annoyed.

"Damn, you've got me there..." They both grinned, and Malcolm gave a small nod. He knew that Trip was trying to cheer him up, and he was grateful for that. It was time for some sort of order to return to his life... it was as though the night before had been a breaking point, and now he had past it he was ready to put the pieces back together.

The phase pistol was still on the floor, and Trip bent down and picked it up. He looked back at his friend, a serious expression in his eyes.

"I'm puttin' this back in the armoury where it belongs, alright?" He said. Malcolm nodded.

"You know," he said quietly, "I don't want you to think... it's not something I would do... I don't know what made me..." He trailed away, frowning faintly, as though he could not find the words. Trip met his gaze and for a long moment the two men just stood there, a single glance conveying more than any words ever could. Eventually, Trip grinned and turned back towards the door.

"C'mon, Mal, there's work to be done..." He moved away.

"But Phlox said - " Malcolm started to protest, but Trip just laughed.

"And since when did you pay any attention to what Phlox said?" Malcolm nodded, a wry smile beginning to form.

"Point taken - " But he was cut off by the metallic bleep of the comm system.

"Bridge to Commander Tucker." Trip tapped the panel, frowning slightly.

"Sir?"

"Trip, you'd better head down to the airlock..." Archer's voice filtered through, sounding harsh and tinny. "We've discovered a Xindi shuttle. There are two life signs aboard, and only one is Xindi. They've linked up – they were running out of air. I've sent a security team down to the airlock. I'd like you to wait for me down there."

"On my way, sir." Trip said, glancing at Malcolm, who was suddenly looking terrified.

"Bridge out."

Trip sighed. Wordlessly, they both turned and headed for the turbolift. A day that had started out badly suddenly seemed destined to get a whole lot worse...

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As they rounded the corner to the airlock Malcolm suddenly stopped, his face white.

"Mal?" Trip probed hesitantly, as the security crew – headed, Trip noted, by Major Hayes – shuffled uncomfortably. Perhaps it was the sight of them, but Malcolm immediately straightened up and continued towards the airlock door.

"Any signs of live weaponry on the other side?" He asked one MACO, who shook his head, a slight tinge appearing on his cheeks. Trip marvelled at how Malcolm could one minute seem so lost and vulnerable and the next be back as the cool and professional Lieutenant. "So apart from the Xindi, what have we got in there?"

"We were unable to identify the non-Xindi biosign, Lieutenant." Major Hayes said, oddly stiffly. Trip watched, fascinated, as Malcolm's eyes hardened like chips of ice as they passed over the MACO commander.

"Indeed." He said coldly, glancing at the door. "So, are we going to let them in?" He asked, a slightly dry smile crossing his face. But Trip, who had known the armoury officer for almost three years, could not mistake the fear in his eyes. His hand was hovering unconsciously over his hip, even though there was no phase pistol there. One of the MACO's, looking awkward, handed Trip a pistol before he moved to open the door. But the MACO left Malcolm completely unarmed. It seemed the news had spread of Malcolm's little 'episode' that morning.

The door slid open, to reveal standing on the other side a tall, reptilian Xindi and a small, weak-looking humanoid. But whilst the MACO's had their weapons trained on the Xindi, Malcolm was staring at the somewhat smaller man with unmasked fear – and disgust.

The Xindi stepped forward, and inclined its head slightly upon sighting Malcolm.

"Human." He said simply, his voice calm and easy. The MACO's looked on in awe. Malcolm returned the nod, the mask of detachment once more upon his face. "I am glad we meet again... though I would have hoped for slightly better circumstances." Malcolm's jaw clenched.

"Indeed." He muttered once more, throwing a glance at the figure standing in the airlock. "Though your choice of _company_ can hardly be applauded." As he spoke, Archer and T'Pol arrived on the scene, though Trip signalled for them to stay quiet. He sensed that this was something Malcolm should deal with on his own. The figure stepped into the light, a faint sneer playing on his lips.

"Human." He said, scornfully mimicking An'Din's words. "So you are still afraid, then?"

Malcolm flinched. Trip stepped closer to his friend, his gaze ever upon the alien. He knew by the look on Malcolm's face that this was the man who had attacked his friend, telepathically, and his trigger hand itched for his gun. Trip had only ever experienced hatred – _true_ hatred – once before, at the death of his sister, but in that moment he hated that little alien so much he wanted to kill him. How _dare_ he do what he had done to Malcolm and stand there now, taunting him? What person had the right to destroy another?

Malcolm glanced at Trip, and his friend looked back. Malcolm nodded slightly, drawing from his friend's gaze all the strength he needed. He turned back to the alien.

"No." He said. "I'm not." Then he turned to the MACO's. "Put him in the brig." Trip glanced at Hayes, to see what he thought of Malcolm ordering _his_ men around, but he made no complaint, simply moved behind the alien and locked his arms behind his back. Trip watched the MACO's lead the man away, whilst one remained behind to guard the Xindi. He turned back, just in time to see Malcolm fall.

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**A/N:** Okay... sorry if the ending is a bit, um, rubbish. I am also sorry if the Trip/Malcolm friendship fluff is beginning to choke you. Feel free to complain in your reviews... hint, hint!

By the way, I'm going to see 'The Producers' in London tomorrow... can't wait! Complete insanity awaits!


	9. Chapter Nine: Then Comes My Fit Again

**A/N:** Hello everyone! Sorry this chapter was a bit slow in coming. Just a few responses to my wonderful reviewers:

Libran Iniquity: I'm very sorry, but I have a plan for Ishran at the end, and he has to be alive for me to carry it out... but he does get his comeuppance, of sorts, in this chapter. Many thanks, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Tata: Sorry I took so long! Here it is!

JacobedRose: Well, read on and find out! Many thanks for your review.

Scifi-warper: The memory that Ishran 'hacked into' was about one of Malcolm's past dalliances... I'll leave you to figure the rest out. ;-)

tripbea: Why is everyone obsessed with killing Ishran? There is something called redemption, you know! But, then again...

Exploded Pen: You seriously think I'd kill Malcolm off? Oh... wait... I did that in another story! No, seriously, he's safe now. More or less, anyway...

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"_Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of man." William Shakespeare, "That Scottish Play"._

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**Chapter Nine**

"Malcolm?" A voice was speaking to him, disturbing the rather comforting haze that surrounded him.

"Hmm?" Malcolm asked, not at all keen to awake from the rather glorious slumber. He hadn't felt this contented in weeks...

Then, unfortunately, he remembered what had preceded his rather sudden nap, and awoke with a start. He looked round, to find Trip holding onto his shoulder and supporting him. He was in sickbay, he realised dimly, looking around at the far-too-familiar room.

"Goodness." He muttered. "This place is getting to feel like home, I'm here so often!" He cracked a smile, trying to wipe that worried expression off Trip's face, but his friend's eyes were as serious as ever.

"What happened, Mal?" Trip asked, frowning in concern. Malcolm shot him a lop-sided grin.

"I was going to ask you the same thing, actually." He said lightly, but Trip just shook his head.

"You collapsed, Mal."

"Ah." Malcolm frowned. "In front of the MACO's?" Trip raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. One of them, anyway." He answered. Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"How damn embarrassing." Then he looked away so he would no longer have to look Trip in the face. There was no one else quite like Trip, he decided silently, who could see through him like he was a sheet of glass.

_Glass is fragile_. A little voice in his head mused. _Trip looks at you and worries that you'll break. Since..._ The voice trailed away, uncertain of itself. Malcolm looked back up at Trip, this time making no pretence.

"Is Ishran still in the brig?" He asked, but Trip looked perplexed.

"Who?" He asked. Malcolm sighed – clearly, as Trip hadn't shared a 'telepathic bond' with Ishran, he wouldn't know his name.

"The Betazoid – the humanoid who arrived with the Xindi commander, Trip?" Trip nodded and Malcolm let out a sigh of relief. But he could still sense the Betazoid's presence, deep within his mind... would he ever find peace again?

"Yeah... Betazoid, did you say? Is that his species?" Malcolm nodded wearily.

"Yes, Trip... do you think I can leave Sickbay yet?" He asked, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. Trip looked around.

"I dunno, you should ask Phlox... wait." He stopped suddenly, looking at Malcolm suspiciously. "Why d'you want to know anyway? 'Cos if you're thinking of headin' down to the brig..."

"Fine." Malcolm muttered through gritted teeth, all the time thinking_ bloody Yank..._

"D'you know why you collapsed, then?" Trip asked, disturbing his rather murderous thoughts. Malcolm looked up at the ceiling.

"No." He lied, his voice going rather high-pitched. Trip, despite himself, smirked.

"Oh, yeah?" He said, and Malcolm sighed.

"Well, not really... I do have an idea."

"Wanna talk about it?" Trip asked. Malcolm shook his head.

"Not really." He said again, and Trip nodded in understanding.

"Alright." He said, and silently the words _but I'll be listening when you do_ passed between them. Then Malcolm stood up, steadying himself as a slight wave of dizziness passed over him. Trip watched him, his eyes narrowed.

"You're headin' for the brig now anyway, aren't you?" He said, but it was a statement, not an accusation. Malcolm nodded.

"Yes." And he walked out of Sickbay, knowing without even looking that Trip would be right beside him.

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Trip watched Malcolm carefully as they headed towards the brig. And with every step, he watched helplessly as yet another crack appeared in Malcolm's carefully-constructed armour. He wished he could do something to help his friend, but he knew that whatever demons Malcolm was fighting it had to be on his own.

When the reached the reinforced brig doors Malcolm stopped, his face ashen. The MACO guarding the door stared at him, but promptly dropped his gaze when Trip shot him a glare. Trip laid a hand on Malcolm's arm.

"Mal?" He asked softly, and Malcolm whirled round to face him, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"No!" He cried out, grabbing Trip's arm. He gazed wildly into the other man's eyes, and Trip saw once again the frightened, vulnerable young man he had seen on the biobed when Malcolm had first returned to _Enterprise_. "Don't – don't make me go in there... oh, Catherine..." Malcolm's eyes were no longer on Trip, but rather gazing sadly down at the floor. Trip gently disentangled his wrist from Malcolm's grasp and squeezed his hands.

"Alright. I'm not gonna make you go in there." Trip bit back the questions on his tongue. Who on earth was 'Catherine'? For lack of being able to do anything to help Trip glared once more at the MACO guard, who had been staring with unabashed curiosity at the exchange.

"You stick to guardin' that door, okay?" Trip growled, before turning back to Malcolm. The man had backed into a corner, and had his shoulders hunched and his hands up in defence. His eyes darted back and forth along the corridor. Trip stepped forward carefully, not even blinking when Malcolm flinched at the sound of his boot on the deck. He held out his hand.

"C'mon." Trip said softly. "Let's head to the mess hall." Malcolm stared at him, and for a moment Trip was sure he was going to refuse, but eventually he straightened up and cleared his throat.

"Alright." Malcolm said, his voice deceptively confident. Trip allowed him this small victory over his fear, and nodded as he stepped forward and began to walk back down the corridor, away from the brig. Trip glanced back at the brig door, hesitating. Malcolm stopped walking, and looked back at him in curiosity.

"Trip?" He asked, but the engineer bit his lip.

"Look, you head to the mess hall, I – I'll catch you up later, alright?" Trip looked back at the door. "There's somethin' I need to do."

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Ishran was rather enjoying his imprisonment onboard _Enterprise_. There was a young, somewhat 'green' crewman guarding him, and Ishran found that simply staring at the young man encouraged rather amusing reactions. The man stared up at the ceiling to avoid Ishran's gaze, and when that didn't work he stood up and began to pace. He kept glancing around and gesticulating with his hands as though he was swatting at bugs. Ishran could smell the discomfort of the man.

Then... what was that? Ishran cocked his head to one side, his sixth, additional sense at the ready. He could sense something... some_one_.

The human. Malcolm Reed... it had to be. Ishran's lips parted in a vicious smile. Now that he was out of the presence of that infuriating An'Din he had no shame. He sent out his message to the human: Get away or I will haunt you forever. Like your woman haunts your waking dreams...

Ishran's favourite part of any given 'interrogation' was the finding out of the patient's weaknesses. Often it was a person, a memory... and Malcolm Reed's weakness came in the form of the only woman he had ever truly loved. Ishran used this weapon viciously.

"What have you done to him?" An angry voice broke into his thoughts, and Ishran looked up in surprise to see that a tall, blond-haired human had entered the brig with him. He hissed in discontent as the door slid shut behind the human; he had been so intent upon taunting his prey that he had missed a chance to escape. He sneered.

"Why do you ask, human?" He asked, disliking the fact that the tall human did not even bat an eyelid at his threatening tone. He could soon change that... "Would you like me to _show_ you?" He made a lunge for the human, but the man dodged him and shot him a hard glare.

"Oh no, you don't. I saw what you did to Malcolm." The human spat, and Ishran paused for a moment to sniff the emotions in the room. He could sense determination, righteous anger, and... what was that one? Unease? That emotion was his own.

He shook off the thought, not wanting the human to see his discomfort, and he sneered once more. The expression was one he had had a lot of time to practise at, whilst in and out of captivity and hiding from his people.

"You would do well to keep your distance then, human." He taunted. Trip glared at him, wishing he had a phase pistol on hand. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and stepped closer to the alien. But then, just like that, the Betazoid's well-schooled expression of distaste disappeared, to be replaced by an expression Trip knew all too well – it was the frightened, rabbit-caught-in-headlights expression he had caught on Malcolm's face countless times when the Brit had thought he wasn't looking.

Trip stepped back once more, confused, but the alien didn't seem to be looking at him at all. He was staring at the wall beyond, staring at demons visible only to himself.

The comm panel chirruped, and Trip moved to answer it.

"Cap'n?" He asked. Archer's voice filtered through. He sounded strained.

"You'd best come to the bridge, and bring the prisoner with you. We've been approached by a vessel claiming to be the security force of a planet called Betazed. They're here to take our 'passenger' to trial." Trip turned to the alien, and though he was not a malicious man by nature, he smirked. The man would finally receive his comeuppance.

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"Greetings." The woman said, bowing slightly to Archer. "I am Lieutenant Irania Chiz, of the security vessel _21-A_."

"Imaginative name." Trip murmured to Hoshi, who coughed in an effort to dispel a laugh. The woman turned to him, her eyebrows raised.

"I doubt you would be able to pronounce the true name of the vessel even if I told you." She said simply, her eyes travelling up and down his figure, giving Trip the curious sensation of being under one of those archaic X-Ray instruments. The woman, though she looked humanoid enough, was notably alien. She let off a strange aura of calm understanding. But when she turned to Ishran, who was flanked by two MACO's and wearing an expression of abject fear and humiliation, her whole appearance hardened.

"Ishran." She said coldly, her voice icy, and then she fell silent. Trip stared at her for a moment, but then he realised that the Betazoid didn't _need_ to voice her words aloud – the two were communicating silently. Eventually, she turned to Archer and bowed once more.

"I would like to meet the member of your crew – Malcolm Reed." She stated simply, awkwardly. Trip stepped forward, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"What, so you can finish what _that_ man" – he glared at Ishran – "started?"

Irania Chiz held his gaze for a long moment, and Trip once again experienced that strange sensation of someone flitting through his consciousness. But, for all its strangeness, it was not an unpleasant sensation. Was this what Malcolm had experienced - ?

"No." Chiz spoke quietly. "Much worse." Silently, she spoke in his mind, _I can help him. Will you let me?_

Trip nodded.

"I'm comin' with you. He'll be in the mess hall." The woman – who was, he had to admit, quite lovely – nodded in agreement.

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Malcolm froze as the woman entered the mess hall. He was not facing the entrance, and her feet had moved silently on the deck, but he sensed her presence all the same. At first, he had thought she was like Ishran – wanting to destroy his mind – but then he felt her consciousness, like a sweet breath of warm wind, upon his own. Slowly, she caressed his wounds without ever touching him, and gently embraced him from across an empty room.

He let her in, closing his eyes as he at last experienced a resolution and peace he had thought he would never find. And as Phlox had sewn together his skin and washed away the bruises, so this woman knitted together the broken shell of his mind, laying to one side the cold, painful memories Ishran had disturbed and placing instead the warmer, softer thoughts at the top. She rested for a moment upon the memory of Catherine, the memory Ishran had employed as his sharpest weapon, and said _it was not your fault._ Malcolm breathed in deeply.

When she had finished, she stepped back, and Malcolm opened his eyes. Malcolm glanced at Trip, who was looking on in confusion, and smiled warmly.

"Commander." Malcolm nodded, the half-officious, half-teasing smile Trip knew, and had missed all too well, playing at his lips.

Trip returned the smile, gladly. Malcolm Reed was back.

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**A/N:** Please tell me what you think!


	10. Chapter Ten: A Midsummer Night's Dream

**A/N:** Okay, my dearies, here it is! The final chapter! Yay! Perhaps a bit of an anti-climax after all the angst, but I think it ties up all the threads nicely. By the way, I would just like to mention that this story has eighty hits and eighty reviews, which makes a review for every hit, which makes my readers complete superstars! Thankyou! And now, for my last set of little notes:

Scifi-warper: Now I, liking to think of myself as a relatively nice person, hesitated to give Ishran his comeuppance, but... well, you'll see.

spootycup: Wow! Thankyou!

Tata: I'm afraid I've left Catherine as one of the few 'mysteries' in this story. However my other story 'Guardian Angel' may clear up a few things about the character. I wrote it a while ago, though, and I think that my writing has improved at least a little bit since then.

Exploded Pen: I am so sorry I took so long to update! Please forgive me for dallying with Sherlock Holmes fanfiction rather than Enterprise; I am a bad, bad girl!

The Libran Iniquity: No pitchforks for Ishran, I'm afraid. But don't worry – he isn't getting away scot-free, far from it!

West Dean: Thanks!

jazzy: Many thanks!

tripbea: Ah, you'll find out what happened to An'Din though it may not, I am afraid, be very satisfying.

samus18: As above – and hmm, everyone seems to like An'Din or, at least, worry about him. He's great.

And special thanks to **Daniela Mosetti Casaretto** for once more reminding me to update. I doubt this story would have got finished without you!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. As always...

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"_Give me your hand, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends." – William Shakespeare, that not-so Scottish Play "A Midsummer Night's Dream"._

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**Chapter Ten**

It was a bitter cold night, and Stuart Reed had yet to sleep a wink. And so – as always when he couldn't sleep – he sat at the window, and stared out at the sea. He had, of course, been adamant that when he retired it would be to somewhere with a sea view. And – as always when he watched the sea toss and turn – his thoughts turned to Malcolm, his son.

It had been the sea which had driven the wedge between them. The sea – the sea and Stuart's 'damn sense of tradition', as the boy had once put it during a particularly heated argument. But that had only been five years ago, and the boy had no longer been a boy then. He certainly wasn't now. An officer – lieutenant and armoury officer on the ship that would save humanity! After all of Stuart Reed's masquerading at playing a naval soldier, it was his son who was to now taste the true bitterness of war.

But no, Stuart could not blame the sea – a soulless, if animated, object. No, it was _he_, Stuart Reed, who had failed to write to his son, to speak to him –

He remembered briefly the incident which had frozen the first layer of ice between the two of them. Malcolm had been but five years old, and his grandfather – Stuart's grandfather – had taken the boy out on the sea in his boat – a storm had blown over, such a storm as Stuart had never seen, and Stuart never saw his father again, and he had never been able to take his son out on the sea again without the boy going pale and sickly...

A sharp _bleep_ from below interrupted his wandering musings. It sounded like the comm panel, but no-one he or Mary would be ringing at such a time... except for one person who was somewhat out of touch with Earth time...

A few moments later, and Stuart Reed was sitting before the comm panel, staring at the face of a person he had scarcely hoped to see again.

"I hope I didn't wake you." His son said, his voice sounding far-off and tinny. "I forget about Greenwich meantime on a starship..." he trailed away, and for a moment Stuart had a chance to study his son's face. There was a quality there that he hadn't seen before – a tiredness, a pain which spoke of wounds which had yet to heal – but also a new hardiness. And Stuart realised that his wife had been wrong to fear that Malcolm would never return – the boy was a Reed, wasn't he? His pig-headed stubbornness would keep him alive until such time as he chose to return at last to the family fold.

"Is there something wrong?" Stuart asked, but for the first time there was no suspicion in his voice – only concern. Malcolm smiled slightly, ever so slightly.

"Not exactly." He said. Yes, Stuart thought, that's our Malcolm – ever the conversationalist. Wherever did he get _that_ tendency from? Eventually, he stated; "A lot's happened recently. It made me think... that perhaps it's foolish to hold old grudges, especially between family."

_Well_. Stuart could hardly have put it more eloquently himself. He smiled at the man on the screen – the man who, after all, he could perhaps claim a little responsibility in moulding, and asked;

"So are you alright?" Malcolm smiled, and nodded thoughtfully.

"All things considered, Dad," he said, "all things considered."

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"So you're alright?" Trip Tucker asked, gazing at his friend in concern. Malcolm had entered the mess hall frowning in preoccupation – not usually a thing for concern, but recently...

"I'm fine, Trip." A slight smile accompanied the well-worn answer.

"Yeah?" Trip was sceptical. It had been but a week, a single week, since the Betazoid had come and taken Ishran away for sentencing on his homeworld, and Trip had hoped that Malcolm would slowly but surely recover whatever it was that the Betazed had taken from him. The slimy Betazoid was not to be put on trial, since his fellow-telepaths already knew him to be guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. Trip wondered briefly how the judicial system would work in a court-room full of telepaths... everyone being able to hear one another's thoughts...

Anyway, the long and short of it was this: that Ishran of Betazed was to receive the highest possible punishment by his government's laws: death by hanging. Such a thing apparently went against the grain of the Betazed mind-set, for they abhorred violence of any sort, but a man who had committed such heinous adulterations with his telepathic powers could receive no less. It would not do to have such a man free to spread his ideas on the home-planet; for even when in a prison cell a Betazoid's thoughts cannot be inhibited.

Trip was glad that Ishran was to die.

"I spoke to my father this afternoon." Malcolm said suddenly, fiddling with his food non-commitantly. Trip looked up from his own meal in surprise and tried to sound as disinterested as possible.

"Really? How'd it go?" His friend raised an amused eyebrow.

"You're just dying to know. I can tell." Trip grinned.

"Mind-reader now, are you?" He teased, then instantly regretted it as Malcolm's eyes clouded over and he once more gained that deer-caught-in-headlights look that Trip had hoped he would never have to see again. "I'm sorry – that was stupid..."

"Don't worry." Malcolm responded quietly, still toying with his food. "And since you asked, it went well. Surprisingly so, in fact."

Trip didn't quite know how to respond. He had learned, long ago, not to press Malcolm Reed for information.

The two friends sat in silence for a while, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. Between good friends no words are needed.

Trip glanced at his friend, musing silently on all that had occurred over the past few months. There had been a time when he had been close to losing hope on any chance of Malcolm's recovery, but he had been wrong to doubt the man. Malcolm always pulled through – and he always would.

And Trip knew that, whilst by joining Starfleet he may have given up anything resembling a normal life, he had also gained something far more precious – friendship.

Malcolm caught his eye and grinned.

"Come now, Commander," he said, his eyes teasing, "let's not be getting too serious..."

The two friends shared a laugh, safe in the knowledge that should anything happen to one of them, the other would always be on hand to help them up.

After all, what are friends for?

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**Epilogue**

There are but a few more notes to add to this tale. Ishran, as we have already learnt, was sentenced to death by his fellow Betazoids for his terrible crimes against the human Malcolm Reed. One would have thought that it ended there for him, but it is a strange thing to note that it was from his bloodline that Deanna Troi, ship's counsellor onboard the Enterprise built two centuries later, was born. It goes some short way to proving that, after all, what we are born has little to do with what we grow up to be.

The Xindi An'Din, who made such a sacrifice for the human Malcolm Reed, was granted amnesty by Starfleet, and eventually became instrumental in the signing of the treaty between Earth and the Xindi Council. He and Malcolm Reed served together on a number of occasions, and Reed never forgot the debt he owed the rebellious Xindi. And on a long-term note, Firkal, the mutant primate, broke away from his own people at the signing of this treaty and together with fellow 'odd ones' fathered the race which would, eventually, contact the Xindi of the twenty-second century and entice them to attack Earth, killing seven million people. These descendants also sent back in time the disease which would spawn the mutant Firkal, therefore making one complete circle of bitterness and war.

On a happier note the human Malcolm Reed, through the support of his friends and fellow crewmen, eventually recovered from the events reported in this tale, though he bore the scars all his life. The exposure to such extreme telepathy heightened his own personal empathy to emotions and proved to beof great advantage when, later on in his illustrious career, he was handed the dubious honour of inviting the Ferengi to join the Federation. Needless to say, it failed.

Malcolm Reed died in the line of duty on the 5th of May, 2188, leaving behind him the rank of Field Admiral, fifteen successfuly-made treaties, four children and a very much younger wife, the daughter of an ambassador of a very powerful, very rich, and very old-fashioned and misogynistic planet. The two came to be married in a rather informal manner and came to love each other in an even more round-about way.

But that, of course, is another story.

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"_If we shadows have offended,_

_Think but this, and all is mended: _

_That you have but slumbered here _

_While these visions did appear."_

_- William Shakespeare_

"_A Midsummer Night's Dream"._

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**A/N:** Please tell me one last time what you all thought of this story! I hope the epilogue was alright, despite being slightly different in style from the rest of the story. And finally, I hope I haven't choked you with the fluff; I couldn't help giving Malcolm the happy ending he deserves. And really finally, my thanks to all my wonderful readers and reviewers – I hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

_Finis_


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